I've learned when I ask you for specific prayer focus, you come through with flying colors. Yesterday, it was pain control and excess fluid accumulation. You came through for me! Thank you. I think I peed an entire ocean last night, and today we can really see the difference. My hands are no longer painful and the swelling is coming down. While I can now feel Sir Gregory (the drain), it is still way better than it has been in previous surgeries. So we celebrate that win. I am having some skin breakdown under the surgical vest where the seams meet my skin, but we will get that all salved (ya'll know I hate the word salve) up in no time and it should only cause some irritation that will hopefully go away when I get into a softer sports bra. Ron and I got a little chuckle when we started grabbing running socks and shoving them under the bra seams. I thought the days of stuffing bras with socks ended years ago. = ) But alas, we revived the trend and you would have laughed at the outcome. One striped sock here, one polka dot sock there. But boy did they do the trick, at least temporarily saving me from the seams.
So I now need to shift your prayers to nausea which hit me like a 95 mph truck this morning out of no where. I sat down to eat breakfast and I didn't even get the first bite before Ron was running for the bucket. Massive hot and cold flashes coming in waves. So we have delayed the surgical vest removal and shower until that subsides. I didn't want to be in a shower when that hits me again and it is really zapping of my energy reserves. The shower is tough enough for me I didn't want to add that to the picture. I think the amazing anti nausea regimen we used yesterday just finally wore off. Thankfully I had some left over phenergan from previous surgeries so I am not loaded up on that. Pray this stays under control because there is no fun in yacking with a drain in and also it wipes my energy out which thwarts the timeline we had in place for the mandatory shower we have to do today.
So this is just a quick update for focused prayers. I will get a more detailed update done tonight or tomorrow after the shower. I'm actually looking forward to the shower (that's a first!) simply because I am ready to get out of this vest since it is aggravating my sensitive skin. And as promised, I will try to capture some pics that I missed taking the previous 5 surgeries. For those of you facing this in your future, pictures are a way better descriptor than words.
As always, thanks for your pushing me from behind. The hill is so easily traversed with all of you in tow.
August 7, 2015 - Surgery #6 - Post Op Day 1
Three years ago today I had my bilateral mastectomy. Most people celebrate with cake and ice cream, or maybe dinner out, or even a trip to commemorate the moment and the purpose it served. Me, I celebrated with another trip to the operating room. I imagine you are up to date on that by now, but if not, you can find the details in previous posts. No worries, I am going to find a way to have ice cream again today (again in that my dad got me goodberry's yesterday) as you can't have it too often. Thank you so much for all the thoughts and support you offered Ron and I these past 3 years over the span of 6 surgeries. I promise you an update on yesterday, so here it goes. Hang in there with me as there are jumbled medicated thoughts, but also a lot to cover not so much for you casual readers, but I want the whole picture for women who may find themselve in similar shoes. I am trying hard to capture the technical details for you this go round instead of just the emotional aspects.
Yesterday started super early. We were up at 4 to shower (the full scrub down with antibacterial scrub) before needing to arrive at the hospital by 5:15. Surgery was scheduled for 7:30. On the drive in, in the dark and passing very few cars, I was able to sit back and reflect on this moment. My sweet husband there beside me ready to dive in head first for another round of care giving. He's the best, you know, and this journey has been all the more do-able because of him and all he is/does for me. Today would be no different. He's been checking in with me all week asking me how I am holding up. He knew this road was going to be tough for me mentally again and he wanted to stay ahead of that. Surprisingly (or not as so many of you have been showering me in prayer) I was feeling very peaceful. Thank you for that, for getting me there!
In usual fashion pre-op took a while for me. I have the most ornery veins I inherited from my mother. Stick one and the vein blew. Stick two, successful but only enough to infuse one med to get me asleep. They would have to place a better line once they had me under. I consider this a win because last time it was 4 attempts. So we were already off to a good start. My sweet little nurse, Stella, was doing orientation, and I don't think she knew what she was getting when she signed up for my case. Next came the anesthesiology group. Also another win! Dr. Anesthesiology had taken extra time the previous day to read up on my history because he had heard of my mishaps with the medications and wanted to be proactive in coming up with a good plan, so he and his resident came in and sat down with me in advance to discuss what our options were. Historically, I am very difficult to get under and very difficult to bring back out. The last surgery it was 12 days before I had rid myself of the "medication stupor" which was really scary for me and Ron. So he was extremely thoughtful in his approached and wanted to involve my thoughts in the plan. I have a lot of medication allergies most of which are related to narcotics. I also have lot of nausea following procedures and yacking with stitches in your chest is a little less than entertaining. Needless to say, his proactive approach scored many points in my books and we have a very successful post op recovery as a result. And so far, not a single bit of nausea (thank you, Emend.)
Next came lead plastic surgeon with his trusty black sharpie pen. I charged him the usual fee and slipped the gown down for his ink up. Incision here, stitches here, scrape out tissue here, drain here, and so on. I've heard wind that he is very matter of fact and no-nonsense in his care giving, but it has been so great to see him now joking around with me and giving in to my prodding to lighten his demeanor. Yesterday, he cracked a joke about how if I just stood leaning sideways, this boob mishap wouldn't be so noticeable. And said when I am eighty, my boobs will only look 40. He's come a long way! Plan was now in place, boobs were Picasso-fied, one last visit with mom, dad, and Ron and I was off to the OR. I remember lying on the table and looking up to see the anesthesiology resident and thanking her for being there in a room full of men. I was expecting her to represent on my behalf. We gave a high-five then she strapped my arms down and introduced me to my versed infusion.
Surgery was about 2 hours and Ron met with Lead Plastic Surgeon afterwards for the full update. Everything went as planned there was just a little more scar tissue in the breast than he has imagined going in. He was able to take the implant out, put it in an antibiotic soak (the implant went to the pool!), scrape out all the scar tissue, then put the implant back in after it finished its swim. Who knew my implant would spend the day at the pool while I was passed out on a table? Now he is all back in place with sutures, glue, steri-strips, bandaging, and a new next door neighbor, my friend the drain. And life is back to post op recovery mode. After about 2 hours in recovery, I was able to go home. I recall Ron going out ahead of me to get the car, so the transport team loaded me up in a wheel chair and pushed me out into the waiting room and there stood my sister-in-law, Megan, Ron's mom, and Megan's boyfriend. For the first time that day I cried. I thought I would make it through with no tears, but seeing their faces and my mom and dad starring back at me reminded me the value of family and what purpose they serve when you find yourself in an aftermath. The love was more than I could hold and the tears just came. I will forgive those tears as they came from a very sweet moment! I was trying so hard not to cry this go around.
We got me home with the help of my mom and dad so Ron could run out and pick up prescriptions and some lunch for us. Ladies, keep this in mind, if you have surgery you need TWO people with you the day you get home. You are too groggy to go on errands with your caregiver and riding in the care is less than delightful, so you need someone to stay with you while he/she goes to get your post op antibiotics and such, Planning tip #423. Planning tip #424 - make them come back with ice cream. Your throat is going to be very sore from the intubation tube (for whatever reason this go round has been the toughest for me in that). Anyway, having mom and dad here that afternoon to help us just find up from down was super helpful for logistics and just for the emotional support that comes from people that love you.
I'm so lucky in that I have had terrific pain control this go round. Nothing is perfect, but it is a huge improvement from what we were expecting. The surgeon had warned Ron that because there was a lot of scar tissue removed, it could be painful later that day, but having very few nerve endings in my breast (there were removed with the initial mastectomy) has been a great treat for me. And guess what? I have virtually no pain at the drain site. WHAT!?!?!?! How can that even be? I had the absolute worse time with the drain the last three times I have had them, but this go round it is as if we are best friends! I can now love him for the healing he brings instead of loathing him for the pain he brought. I've named him Sir Gregory and we've become tolerant of each other. I will get some better pictures for you tomorrow, but below you can see the suction bulb on the end and how we drain the fluid out in a measuring cup. The fluid starts bright red and over several days will start to clear to a light tea color as the internal bleeding lessens. I'm grow able in that who ever would have thought I would find appreciation for a drain. Sir Gregory, you have earned a place at my table/boob. I'm also happy to report we have emptied it twice now and the volume is already decreasing and I haven't shed a single tear with that. The drains can be quite unbearable most of the time, so for me to be having this neutral experience with it this go round is only a testament to the power of your prayers. I had you praying for 2 specific things - the drains and my emotions. Both are soaring high!
So let's transition prayers to this now:
1) We need some sleep and I need to get some fluid out of my body. We were up at least once every 90 minutes (I stopped counting after my 7th trip) throughout the night with me having to go potty. I have so much fluid on board from all of the drugs, the IV fluids and my general ability to retain water. Last night, my arms and hands had swollen up to the point that I couldn't bend my fingers without a lot of pain. So we are working hard to get the fluid out...and that means multiple trips to the potty around the clock. Well because I am not coherent per se, Ron has to go with me. And because I can't use my arms, he has to dress and undress me for the potty trips. Somehow we are not only civil, but joyful this morning after very little sleep. I love that about us.
2) Pray for the pain control to stay so well managed. I really couldn't imagine it being any better considering what all happened to the breast yesterday. It is swollen, but that will lessen over time. And my hands are still really swollen today, so pray for all that pain to stay manageable.
Tomorrow is a big day in that the surgical bra gets to come off. We will take the bra off, remove the top set of bandages, and inspect the incisions underneath followed by a shower. Ok, this is where I will be at risk in having some tears flow, but I am feeling optimistic! I will get you pictures tomorrow of the surgical bra and bandaging if I can capture it tastefully. And also of the drain incision so you can have a mental picture (those of you that may need this information in the future,)
I feel sure this post is all over the place with words and such. My apologies for that, but it is what I could get on the screen at this current time with these meds on board. Most of all I wanted to update you since so many of you reached out to me yesterday and I couldn't get back to you in real time. Your love is so evident and that is what gets us through mastectomy! Thank you from Ron and I and boob 1 and Boob 3.0 (the surgeon said 2.3 wouldn't suffice after all this effort on his part).
Love you all and more updates tomorrow.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
August 3, 2015 - Pencils sharpened
She emailed me today, asking me to call her when I get a
chance. As soon as I saw the sender, I knew what it was about. I’ve hit the 2
day window before surgery. Somehow seven months have passed and now here I sit
with Thursday morning staring me in the face. I waited to call her back. I
pushed it off on purpose. I wanted a few more minutes of not having the
discussion. I was controlling the situation. I’m admittedly bad about doing
that.
You need to shower the night before and the morning of
surgery. You are first case, so you need to arrive early. No makeup, no deodorant,
no hair product, just come fresh from the shower. He will be taking the implant
out on the right side and removing scar tissue then replacing the implant and
placing drains and stitches. He will tell you all of this again the morning of.
After surgery you will wake up in a surgical vest. Keep the surgical vest on
for 48 hours. Keep the fluff in place and just let it be. Every 8-12 hours
empty the drain and record the volume. Your goal should be less than 30 ml in
24 hours. The drainage volume should decrease and the color should become
lighter with less clots with each passing day. If volume increases, call us. Forty eight
hours later, take off the vest and inspect the incision sites. Remove the
bandages, if there is significant redness, call us. If redness grows after that
time point call us. You can start to shower after 2 days, no scrubbing the site, just let
water flow over it. Do not let water touch the drain insertion site, keep that
bandage in place until the drains come out. Come back a week later and we will see if we can remove the stitches and take out the
drain. No lifting until further notice. (And I quote) “Keep your arms pterodactyl
style.” (And I just now learned how to spell pterodactyl!) Stay in a sports bra
24 hours a day for the next month. Don’t forget to bring a picture ID when you
check in. (By the way, why in the world
would that be needed? Would someone really sneak in and try to change places
with me for this specific surgery? Just saying. If you would, give me a call.)
I called her back. This was her instruction. All of which I
could have stated verbatim. I am a pro now. But it was refreshing to know I
didn’t have to rely on my memory. But the phone call also made it totally real. Not even 12 hours later, the phone rings
again. Anesthesia screening. Yep, it’s really happening. They certainly won’t
let me forget it.
It’s that feeling you get when you were sharpening your
pencils before the SAT exam in highschool. That is almost exactly what it feels
like in this time period leading up. Your stomach drops and you feel the
underlying nausea, and your heart rate isn’t exactly at baseline. There is
nothing you can do but go in and sit down at the desk. It’s simple awareness of
what it is. It’s not fear for me; it’s dread. God’s will supersedes my own, so
I fear not the outcome, but I certainly don’t want the recovery time.
I still have laundry to do, bed sheets to change, clean towels to hang and meals to prep and freeze, but I’ve already done a lot to make every day
moments a tad more manageable in the healing period. And what I have neglected
to accomplish, Ron will step in to complete the task in real time. He’s good
like that.
Thursday morning 7:30. My pencils are sharpened. Now, I just need to
sit down in the desk.
August 1, 2015 Wardrobes you don't even own
One benefit of rationale thoughts this go round is you are able to think of some really practical things you can do in advance of surgery to make post-op less stressful for your spouse (and yourself!) Ron and I spent the morning working on some landscaping at a local school with our church. What a treat to see so many people come together to better school environments for the upcoming year. I love that this group of believers feel so passionate about local missions. And it was a perfectly timed reminder of service for other people. Well, after an exhausting few hours in the heat, i found some A/C and sat down to make the to do list of all that needs to happen in the next four days. Laundry, cleaning, etc. But high on that list was tackling the waredrobe...all with my spouse in mind.
One very frustrating thing post-op is what you can and can't wear. For the first 48 hours you are stuck in a vecroed surgical "bra" stuffed full of "gauze stuffing". It's hysterical (and sad) to look down and see this stuffing oozing out of your cotton contraption meant to hold everything in place. Well this "bra" is pretty bulky and cumbersome, so only certain shirts are going to fit over and contain this masterpiece. Plus, there are two drains bubbling out from the underside. Oversized and soft is the only suitable option for shirts, and also old because inevitably you will ink iodine, left over from surgery, onto them. After 48 hours in this delightful set up, you score the big win and "get" to transition to a normal sports bra. One you've cut little notches into to keep the elastic from pressuring into the drain tubes. The sports bras are suitable for about a month, then you get to graduate to adorable little flimsy brassieres minus the adorable and absent of the necessary under wire you've learned to embrace since adolescence. These are your wardrobe partners for about two months. Perfect for an evening on the town! ; )
Then there are pajamas and pants -yoga style is the ONLY way to go because your overwhelmed spouse, or sister, or mother, or dearest friend ever have to help you get all of this on you with little to no assistance from yourself. You can't raise your arms, lift any weight, or "pull" or tug with the affected side(s) for many weeks. So you get to rely on your life savers to somehow get you from one days wear to another, all without yelling because he can't find the blue tshirt with a grey sportsbra, underwear, and grey yoga capris, while you sit back trying to explain which drawer each can be found in and in which laundry basket in which bedroom, then remembering in your medication induced stupor that everything you just described you don't even own but are what you saw your friend wearing at the landscaping project at the local school with your church group. Yes, there is high probability of chaos and shed tears simply trying to navigate with your life saver the need to get something on your body, in a reasonable time, that actually fits.
So while Ron is in the backyard finishing up a yard project we started weeks ago, I'm inside creating a post surgery corner in my closet of sortable wardrobe items that can be grabbed at any time by my sweet Ron. Bras laid out in stages of when each can be worn. And yoga pants, and shirts, and undies. He's going to be so grateful when i show him because we certainly didn't have this mastered in the five times previous. Old dog, amazing new functional tricks that save your sanity when you are walking the thin line in mastectomy surgery, or any surgery for that matter.
Next, spaghetti sauce frozen in baggies for thawing. Then freshly cleaned bathtubs so we can take our pick of which will be easiest to navigate for shampooing and pouring a cup of water over my hair.
Oh the things you learn and wish you had known the first few times around. Now it's here for you.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
One very frustrating thing post-op is what you can and can't wear. For the first 48 hours you are stuck in a vecroed surgical "bra" stuffed full of "gauze stuffing". It's hysterical (and sad) to look down and see this stuffing oozing out of your cotton contraption meant to hold everything in place. Well this "bra" is pretty bulky and cumbersome, so only certain shirts are going to fit over and contain this masterpiece. Plus, there are two drains bubbling out from the underside. Oversized and soft is the only suitable option for shirts, and also old because inevitably you will ink iodine, left over from surgery, onto them. After 48 hours in this delightful set up, you score the big win and "get" to transition to a normal sports bra. One you've cut little notches into to keep the elastic from pressuring into the drain tubes. The sports bras are suitable for about a month, then you get to graduate to adorable little flimsy brassieres minus the adorable and absent of the necessary under wire you've learned to embrace since adolescence. These are your wardrobe partners for about two months. Perfect for an evening on the town! ; )
Then there are pajamas and pants -yoga style is the ONLY way to go because your overwhelmed spouse, or sister, or mother, or dearest friend ever have to help you get all of this on you with little to no assistance from yourself. You can't raise your arms, lift any weight, or "pull" or tug with the affected side(s) for many weeks. So you get to rely on your life savers to somehow get you from one days wear to another, all without yelling because he can't find the blue tshirt with a grey sportsbra, underwear, and grey yoga capris, while you sit back trying to explain which drawer each can be found in and in which laundry basket in which bedroom, then remembering in your medication induced stupor that everything you just described you don't even own but are what you saw your friend wearing at the landscaping project at the local school with your church group. Yes, there is high probability of chaos and shed tears simply trying to navigate with your life saver the need to get something on your body, in a reasonable time, that actually fits.
So while Ron is in the backyard finishing up a yard project we started weeks ago, I'm inside creating a post surgery corner in my closet of sortable wardrobe items that can be grabbed at any time by my sweet Ron. Bras laid out in stages of when each can be worn. And yoga pants, and shirts, and undies. He's going to be so grateful when i show him because we certainly didn't have this mastered in the five times previous. Old dog, amazing new functional tricks that save your sanity when you are walking the thin line in mastectomy surgery, or any surgery for that matter.
Next, spaghetti sauce frozen in baggies for thawing. Then freshly cleaned bathtubs so we can take our pick of which will be easiest to navigate for shampooing and pouring a cup of water over my hair.
Oh the things you learn and wish you had known the first few times around. Now it's here for you.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
July 31, 2015 - G force
Last night was not an ideal night. A frustrating thing leading up to a mastectomy related procedure is it pulls you right back into the initial event. I can't blame my crappy evening on mastectomy as that seems too vague, but I can and do blame it on my awareness of what is to come. I was having a terrific week for all practical reasons and then wham! Thursday evening arrives and I'm fully aware surgery is less than a week away all because of the calendar flipping to a new day. That was the only change and it plummeted me into ugliness, the mood being so foul I sent myself unexplained to my room to regroup.
I placed myself on the bed, under the covers, away from my household and brewed while fears floated right to left, back to front, up to down. The thoughts of soon having to wake Ron up to take me to the bathroom got under my skin. The need to have him lift me up and down from the couch subdued me. The awareness that bandage care would be scheduled and tears would flow plopped right into the middle of my perfectly fine evening just thirty minutes before. I could only see the trials, not the triumph and it sucked everything out of me rather quickly. I couldn't even admit it to Ron, as it felt so trivial and embarrassing to have found myself in this place all because the calendar date did exactly what it was intended to do...change.
It's real and it's primal and it doesn't have to have a reason. Just three days ago I was celebrating my perspective. Pride before the fall, huh? But here it is, the rollercoaster of feminine thoughts and emotions, and sometimes you just find yourself on the ride strapped in and under the influence of it's g force. You rationally comprehend the absurdity of the moment, but you are buckled in and fail to get off. I'm not the only one that had found myself there, and sadly that provides me some comfort.
Full-disclosure and an accurate vantage point of the face of mastectomy. Sometimes there is laughter, sometimes not so much. I am where I am and that status point changes a lot this week. But thankfully the ride stopped after my slumber and now I'm just left with the lingering after thoughts. I credit prayer and thankful to those who provide it in real time at beck and call.
I placed myself on the bed, under the covers, away from my household and brewed while fears floated right to left, back to front, up to down. The thoughts of soon having to wake Ron up to take me to the bathroom got under my skin. The need to have him lift me up and down from the couch subdued me. The awareness that bandage care would be scheduled and tears would flow plopped right into the middle of my perfectly fine evening just thirty minutes before. I could only see the trials, not the triumph and it sucked everything out of me rather quickly. I couldn't even admit it to Ron, as it felt so trivial and embarrassing to have found myself in this place all because the calendar date did exactly what it was intended to do...change.
It's real and it's primal and it doesn't have to have a reason. Just three days ago I was celebrating my perspective. Pride before the fall, huh? But here it is, the rollercoaster of feminine thoughts and emotions, and sometimes you just find yourself on the ride strapped in and under the influence of it's g force. You rationally comprehend the absurdity of the moment, but you are buckled in and fail to get off. I'm not the only one that had found myself there, and sadly that provides me some comfort.
Full-disclosure and an accurate vantage point of the face of mastectomy. Sometimes there is laughter, sometimes not so much. I am where I am and that status point changes a lot this week. But thankfully the ride stopped after my slumber and now I'm just left with the lingering after thoughts. I credit prayer and thankful to those who provide it in real time at beck and call.
July 28, 2015 - Hideous Packaging
My friend, V, sent me a very thoughtful gift in the mail in preparation for my upcoming surgery. She herself had recently completed mastectomy and found the most perfect shirt to use in the immediate day post surgery. Appropriately colored pink for advocacy and equipped with Velcro easy access and well placed pockets for housing drains. I found myself wondering how in the world I had not come across something similar in the last 5 surgeries. The perfect gift of practicality and also a fashionable camouflage for what lie underneath its Velcro closures. And above all of that practicality was a tender heart of a friend who understood the dread I’m experiencing now about a week before my next surgery. My posts are a bit more frequent this month than previous months. A testament of my daily thoughts focused on what is to come.
“The universe delivered me a beautiful gift in hideous packaging.” Author: Susan Rebecca White in A place at the Table.
Have you ever been dealt something in life that you truly wondered "could this possibly be any worse than it is"? While this quote doesn’t apply to the gift I received in the mail as it was a beautiful gift in beautiful packaging, boy is the quote ever so fitting for my mastectomy. Hideous packaging in an understatement (ok, so maybe a smidge of an overstatement as hideous really is a very strong word, but you get the idea). This process has been way more involved and life changing than I ever could have imagined. While the scars were somewhat better than I ever expected, the turmoil of the process and its effects on “life” were so much more. Never could I have imagined how this would turn some weeks upside down. How much I would dread a surgical drain. How I would sit in the middle of a play on my birthday while infusing antibiotics for my cellulitis. How I WOULD actually care what they looked like afterwards. How I would cry at the drop of a hat early on in this process…and it always stupidly timed itself in the middle of a medical appointment with the surgeons. How much this would affect Ron as he tried to navigate me. How much money would be involved. How much impact it would have on everyday life in the immediate after and how I would detest the physical isolation being cooped up at home after each procedure.
But you know what? I also never imagined how much joy I would get in that chaos. The relationships that would form. The triumphs of going through pain with a spouse. Those little moments in the middle of the night where I look over and see Ron lying in the floor next to me because if I am not comfortable in the bed, neither is he. Those times when you run into a friend who has had mastectomy and you feel that immediate bond of “I know your struggle”. The tears that flow in unison with friends while you all sit in a booth at a restaurant because they care so much about you. Dinner that arrived on a doorstep and cards that arrived in the mail. The humor I would find in the most ridiculous of moments like when doing my strength exercises in my kitchen doorway. Or when I realize every single article of clothing or swimwear I owned would fit quite differently 2 weeks later. And therein lies the beauties of mastectomy. It was the most hideous of packages (this need for mastectomy) but out came the most beautiful gifts of life. I wouldn’t change a single moment of it. Truly I wouldn’t, because I am so much more of a woman after this journey, despite thinking I might be so much less. I am not defined as a woman by these missing breasts, but I most certainly am defined by the triumphs, and relationships, and personal growth that come out of it. I would do it all over again. Every single minute of it.
And therefore, I am trying to go into surgery number 6 next week with this mindset. I purposely wake up every morning mixing my dread with my optimistic anticipation of what can come. Every moment of this is an opportunity to forge more of what I have already gotten. Ron and I will have more “moments” under our marriage belt. I know more tears will flow, as they are flowing even as I type this words, but through those tears come understanding and an in-depth awareness of Sally and what molds me. I know there will be more relationships forged, just as occurred with the arrival of the “perfect shirt” in the mail. We are all a community of people surviving life…and as stated in previous posts, hopefully thriving! Mastectomy makes me better at being me. As did lymphoma. As did cleft lips. As did heart break. As did loss. As did a period of time where I had no boobs. I loathed it. But I am a better version of me because of it. I may have left a little piece of me behind in various places along the way, but I certainly made up for that in what I gained.
“The universe delivered me a beautiful gift in hideous packaging” is so nicely coupled with the old hymnal verse “To God be the glory, great things he has done.” I can still hear mom and dad in my head belting this out from the pew.
“The universe delivered me a beautiful gift in hideous packaging.” Author: Susan Rebecca White in A place at the Table.
Have you ever been dealt something in life that you truly wondered "could this possibly be any worse than it is"? While this quote doesn’t apply to the gift I received in the mail as it was a beautiful gift in beautiful packaging, boy is the quote ever so fitting for my mastectomy. Hideous packaging in an understatement (ok, so maybe a smidge of an overstatement as hideous really is a very strong word, but you get the idea). This process has been way more involved and life changing than I ever could have imagined. While the scars were somewhat better than I ever expected, the turmoil of the process and its effects on “life” were so much more. Never could I have imagined how this would turn some weeks upside down. How much I would dread a surgical drain. How I would sit in the middle of a play on my birthday while infusing antibiotics for my cellulitis. How I WOULD actually care what they looked like afterwards. How I would cry at the drop of a hat early on in this process…and it always stupidly timed itself in the middle of a medical appointment with the surgeons. How much this would affect Ron as he tried to navigate me. How much money would be involved. How much impact it would have on everyday life in the immediate after and how I would detest the physical isolation being cooped up at home after each procedure.
But you know what? I also never imagined how much joy I would get in that chaos. The relationships that would form. The triumphs of going through pain with a spouse. Those little moments in the middle of the night where I look over and see Ron lying in the floor next to me because if I am not comfortable in the bed, neither is he. Those times when you run into a friend who has had mastectomy and you feel that immediate bond of “I know your struggle”. The tears that flow in unison with friends while you all sit in a booth at a restaurant because they care so much about you. Dinner that arrived on a doorstep and cards that arrived in the mail. The humor I would find in the most ridiculous of moments like when doing my strength exercises in my kitchen doorway. Or when I realize every single article of clothing or swimwear I owned would fit quite differently 2 weeks later. And therein lies the beauties of mastectomy. It was the most hideous of packages (this need for mastectomy) but out came the most beautiful gifts of life. I wouldn’t change a single moment of it. Truly I wouldn’t, because I am so much more of a woman after this journey, despite thinking I might be so much less. I am not defined as a woman by these missing breasts, but I most certainly am defined by the triumphs, and relationships, and personal growth that come out of it. I would do it all over again. Every single minute of it.
And therefore, I am trying to go into surgery number 6 next week with this mindset. I purposely wake up every morning mixing my dread with my optimistic anticipation of what can come. Every moment of this is an opportunity to forge more of what I have already gotten. Ron and I will have more “moments” under our marriage belt. I know more tears will flow, as they are flowing even as I type this words, but through those tears come understanding and an in-depth awareness of Sally and what molds me. I know there will be more relationships forged, just as occurred with the arrival of the “perfect shirt” in the mail. We are all a community of people surviving life…and as stated in previous posts, hopefully thriving! Mastectomy makes me better at being me. As did lymphoma. As did cleft lips. As did heart break. As did loss. As did a period of time where I had no boobs. I loathed it. But I am a better version of me because of it. I may have left a little piece of me behind in various places along the way, but I certainly made up for that in what I gained.
“The universe delivered me a beautiful gift in hideous packaging” is so nicely coupled with the old hymnal verse “To God be the glory, great things he has done.” I can still hear mom and dad in my head belting this out from the pew.
July 21, 2015 - ING
The data can be overwhelming, as I read paragraph after
paragraph in preparation for an inservice I’m working on, but also in
preparation for an upcoming appointment. The risk factors associated with the treatment
of malignancy are numerous to say the least and continue to soar as time passes.
The more your read, the more you wonder how in the world anyone survives anything
at all. Radiation alone drastically increases your risks of secondary
conditions: breast cancer (MRIs and mammograms every six month – or in some
cases mastectomy), skin cancers (yearly dermatology appointments), colon cancer
(colonoscopy every 5 years starting 10 years after your last radiation dose or
age 35 – whichever is the latter), cardiac insufficiency (doppler and ekg 10 years
after therapy end, echocardiogram every 2 years), pulmonary fibrosis (Baseline
PFTs then routinely afterwards), and the list goes on. This doesn’t even begin
to factor in those risks associated with chemotherapy dosing which only
catapults the list into another realm. As
I continued to read, I could easily find myself overwhelmed at the numbers and
wondering how in the world does one stay on top of all of that without falling
into a spiral of paranoia at what might come. I am also suddenly aware I am incredibly
behind on my “routine” follow-up appointments. In fact, I had only met one task,
mastectomy. So I’ve spent the last few days getting appointments scheduled and
follow up calendars planned in an attempt at outsmarting fate. I most
definitely see the needs for cancer patients to be enrolled in long-term care
follow-up clinics and am wondering why I had not done the same for myself. It
feels…fearful…knowing the data.
There is a fine line between fear and proactive, and I am
working to maintain the latter instead of the falling prey to the former. I
fully believe that God may have specific plans for my future in my health, just
as he has used my mastectomy in so many ways, but I also believe he gives me a
brain to try and circumvent medical mishap. So I choose to be purposeful moving
forward in my medical follow-up. Dermatology appointment scheduled. Cardiology
appointment in the works. Colonoscopy…..Ron, please hold my hand…also in the works.
Pulmonary appointment, on the to-do list. And the others, I will get to you in
good time. But first let me fit in a surgery to fix boob 2.2. First things
first, right? Attitude adjustment in the works as well. While mastectomy
created a good bit of disruption to my every day existence and that is ongoing
in the immediate after each surgery, I would be a fool not to recognize the
gifts it has brought in the process as well. Instead of embracing the
bitterness of circumstance, I’m choosing to bring to the forefront the great. And
I’m enlightened by how much better I know myself in the process. Isn’t it crazy
how you absolutely know you have everything
about yourself all figured out, but in the fast swoop of an unexpected
circumstance you can find some undiscovered nooks and crannies of your
personality? Or awareness of how much circumstance can mold you into something
changed, could be better, could be worse, on the other side. My heart is much
deeper for relationships here on this side. And my awareness of “what is on the
outside is not always what is on the inside” is more finely tuned in my interactions
with others I run into from day to day. We are continually morphing as we get from
here to there. An additional little nugget I’ve gleaned is the appreciation of “while
things can always be worse” that doesn’t mean I am not feeling every single
moment of what I am in. Only you can measure how something affects you, there
is no gold standard or bar to be set. Yes things can always be worse, but
things are still your reality of here and now. And they may impact you deeply.
Navigating “post lymphoma” life for some reason feels pretty
overwhelming right now. I am sure the breast surgery being in my immediate
future might be the source of that, but also this preparation for preventing future
medical mishaps which now clutters my calendar with no regard for co-inhabitants
of the time slot. It all has to be worked in and it’s all for the good of me as
a whole. It makes survival more active, less passive. Because surviving never
really ends, does it? We will all always be surviving something. And while the
event itself comes to an end (hopefully), we are left with the positive and
negative aftermath that we incorporate into our everyday lives…forever…in some
capacity each and every day. You never go back to life before malignancy, or
divorce, or assault, or parenthood, or achievement. It’s there knitting its way
into your decisions, and perspectives, and motivations, and fears. Conscious or
not, it’s there influencing almost everything about you. And that is the way it
will be each and every day moving forward.
Sometimes I feel better knowing the colonoscopy is NOT
scheduled as that mandates the scope will never find an “aftermath”. But if I’m
being truthful for myself, this thought process is choosing fear. And that fear
is a method of survivorship I want very much not to embrace.
I am not a survivor. I am surviv-ING. It’s not a fixed point
on the timeline, it’s the timeline itself. This, I finally understand.
Psalm 16:11 You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.
July 14, 2015 - Return to Sender!
It was lying midway through the stack of mail, sandwiched between
an overpriced clothing catalog and a reminder to schedule a termite
inspection. But I saw it immediately – the over sized oblong envelope with royal
blue writing. I can recognize that envelope a mile away by now, yet I still
hold out hope each time that it contains an invitation to a magical masquerade ball,
or a collection of forgotten snapshots from a recent trip. Yet it is never
that. Not even once is it that! The return address immediately betrays the
sender. Division of Plastic Surgery. Woe is me.
Immediately, my funk returned. I do this every stinking time-
the dread, the loathing, the sulking. I don’t know why I let this affect me
like it does, but it seeps in from the outer regions of Pluto and finds itself
right in the forefront of my mind. It only took the arrival of post-surgery
documents to send me bee-lining straight from delightful to disgruntled. I really
wanted to overachieve and postpone disgruntled until the night before surgery,
but alas, the dang mailing. I am beyond grateful that I spent the last 5
months, for the most part anyway, putting this 6th surgery out of my
mind. I worked very hard to claim life in that very moment instead of dread of
what was coming in early August. I definitely had “most improved” in that
aspect compared to previous surgeries, but the mailing came super early this go
round and now here I sit dreading August 6th as if it contains the
plague. Boob 2.2 will now be Boob 2.3. Ridiculous, I know. One, who names there
implants? And two, ridiculous that two surgeries turned into six. (You can find
the background for this upcoming surgery # 6 here (January 2015) and in conclusion here (February 2015). If you haven’t been keeping up, I don’t blame you a bit.) But I am very much
aware that God is still the God of disgruntled and he will meet me exactly
where I am. Ron is still the king of
best caregiver ever and he is all geared up for shoving pillows here and
peaking under bandages there. And I am still the queen of distraction (ok, I totally
over sell that attribute cause I’m really not great at that at all) but
distraction is on the to-do list all the same…along with buying gauze, and
alcohol swabs, and oh I don’t know, maybe ice cream!
The surgery mocks me in my waking hours. The pesky little
sucker drain that now consumes me all because of an oblong envelope arriving
several weeks early NOT containing an invitation to a magical masquerade ball. RETURN TO SENDER!
Double mastectomies almost seem common place now. Sandra Lee, food network host, underwent mastectomy just this week. And there barely goes a month that I don't hear of another person adding mastectomy to their medical list. Celebrities have made the mastectomy discussion more common place and the physical effects a little less taboo. Angelina Jolie braved that path publicly last year. Christina Applegate in 2008. Comedian Wanda Sykes and TV host Giuliana Rancic in 2011. Kathy Bates 2012. And then there is Sharon Osbourne, also in 2012, who chose mastectomy for prophylaxis after diagnosis with the BRCA gene. The list is growing not only for breast cancer but for prevention alike. No one is immune to its grasps it seems, yet we all find ourselves shocked when it lands on our doorstep. My heart gets a little heavier with each new announcement. I know how those moments feel, and I know how mundane life becomes quite un-mundane, if even for a few days, but more likely for many months after you emerge from the OR room. So for those of us not in the limelight of fame, mastectomy seems a little more do-able because of their open discussions of such. But at the same time, I want to shout it from the rooftops that it is the stories of the not so famous, not only of the famous, that better get me through mastectomy moments. These stories are a bit more relate-able for me with similar circumstance and day-to-day events and challenges. (Please know, I'm not saying celebrities are not every day people, I'm just saying they have resources and access to options that may vary from some of the rest of us. So their journey is different, though similar, even if in minute ways.) I imagine what wonders we could do if the celebrity partnered up with the not-so-famous to share both sides of this life. Mastectomy just may have a few less scars when approached with knowledge from someone who traveled the road before you.
And with that we keep trucking on and I see this next surgery in my headlights. Hopefully a little wiser with each passing one.
Double mastectomies almost seem common place now. Sandra Lee, food network host, underwent mastectomy just this week. And there barely goes a month that I don't hear of another person adding mastectomy to their medical list. Celebrities have made the mastectomy discussion more common place and the physical effects a little less taboo. Angelina Jolie braved that path publicly last year. Christina Applegate in 2008. Comedian Wanda Sykes and TV host Giuliana Rancic in 2011. Kathy Bates 2012. And then there is Sharon Osbourne, also in 2012, who chose mastectomy for prophylaxis after diagnosis with the BRCA gene. The list is growing not only for breast cancer but for prevention alike. No one is immune to its grasps it seems, yet we all find ourselves shocked when it lands on our doorstep. My heart gets a little heavier with each new announcement. I know how those moments feel, and I know how mundane life becomes quite un-mundane, if even for a few days, but more likely for many months after you emerge from the OR room. So for those of us not in the limelight of fame, mastectomy seems a little more do-able because of their open discussions of such. But at the same time, I want to shout it from the rooftops that it is the stories of the not so famous, not only of the famous, that better get me through mastectomy moments. These stories are a bit more relate-able for me with similar circumstance and day-to-day events and challenges. (Please know, I'm not saying celebrities are not every day people, I'm just saying they have resources and access to options that may vary from some of the rest of us. So their journey is different, though similar, even if in minute ways.) I imagine what wonders we could do if the celebrity partnered up with the not-so-famous to share both sides of this life. Mastectomy just may have a few less scars when approached with knowledge from someone who traveled the road before you.
And with that we keep trucking on and I see this next surgery in my headlights. Hopefully a little wiser with each passing one.
June 16, 2015 - The Paper Weight
I find having breast implants ridiculously funny. I don’t
know why but if they aren’t making me cry, they are really making me laugh. The
lack of jiggle, the phantom nerve pain, the asymmetry -when they are synthetic
so totally should be symmetrical, the fact that you have a card specifying what
lot number your new breast is, the realization that they aren't flotation devices
(flotation devices?) when one would think that they would be. Trust me, there is a lot to
laugh at for me. But I am finding that not everyone with reconstructive
implants finds the same humor quite so therapeutic.
I was laughing this week about how anyone with implants or
who works in breast reconstruction should keep a “high profile smooth round gel
implant” on their desk as a paper weight. Right?!?!?! Wouldn’t that be a hoot simply
because you can? (Yes, I have no doubt this is not Shark Tank worthy, but it has the potential to be...well funny...to me anyway.) It’s like the tshirt slogan “Yes they’re fake, my real ones
tried to kill me!” I like to find fun in the not so fun. It keeps me from
falling apart in circumstance. Usually as I find myself in any given circumstance I try to be
sensitive to others there with me on the boat. But as I was chuckling at the idea of the implant
weight out loud on the phone with a colleague while I was shoving paper away from my desk fan, I realized for many
people reconstructive implants are probably anything but humorous. Looking
death in the face can very easily change your vantage point and I need to be
careful to keep that in mind. So I’m trying to be more mindful that not
everyone uses laughter to get though life and that some people may very
seriously love or detest their implants for exactly what they are – implants –
nothing more nothing less. Simply a necessity to get from this side of mastectomy
to the other. And that my vantage point
may be a bit irreverent, or harsh, or selfish. Not that this changes my
perspective, just that my perspective may need to sometimes be….less...or simply maybe more selective in how, and when, and to whom it is verbalized. Thankfully, I do
consider my blog a safe place in that people can choose to read or not to read,
but I need to remember that when discussions occur in person, choice is
removed.
I may have made a snafu (it was really hard to tell if I did or not). I’m
back peddling. And I’m teachable.
(But I would buy the paper weight! And I would laugh every time I saw it orchestrating gravity on my desk. I just might not choose to let everyone see it, particularly if they underwent mastectomy. See? Teachable.)
(And if this is the first blog post of mine you have read, please choose another as I promise I have better words to provide.)
(And if this is the first blog post of mine you have read, please choose another as I promise I have better words to provide.)
May 12, 2015 - Survival
She is in surgery this very day, removing the cancerous
breasts and awaiting replacements. She has had a long fight being nearly 6
months since diagnosis and today is the day she wills herself to part with the
old and unite with the new. The question comes as I suspected it would -“Do you have any advice?”
Every single time I hear this question, my stomach rolls a
bit in anxiety and fear of what to say or what not to say. I've eluded to it once before (link to post) when asked what I would tell someone facing
the choice of prophylactic mastectomy. That question in that scenario is tough enough, but the
question carries a different scenario and meaning when asked by someone with cancerous
breasts. It’s like comparing apples to orangutans on several dimensions, but you also realize in a side note that the similarities are there. Removing a breast is removing a breast when it comes down to it. But one being
removed in preventative choice carries a different vantage point than those removed
in a reaction to a diagnosis. I won’t go into greater detail here for sake of
key stroke, but it’s different…and the same…and different.
Since the question keeps arising from various scenarios
I feel as though I need to get past the anxiety of providing a response. It’s
not that I don’t know all the caveats in and out of my own thoughts around the
procedure, it’s that I fully recognize my words may be utterly
misguiding and useless to someone else in a different or even similar circumstance. I could tell you to go this very minute and purchase a foam wedge
for your bed so you may find some comfort when trying to sleep with 4 drains in tow, but you may find that is a useless purchase. Or I could advise
you to not look at the scars early on as healing and a drastically improved appearance
come with time, but you may find that inspecting them in great detail the day
after surgery may be the one thing you need to do in order to move forward. Or
I could tell you that post procedure you may find yourself weeping for no
reason at all, yet you yourself don’t shed a single tear. We are who we are and
we experience what we experience. But as I have said before, I know you will
experience SOMETHING, but what that will be exactly remains to be seen. And therein lies the
anxiety of useless advice. Maybe all you need is gentle reassurance. Or just a
presence of friendship. Yet the questions still come and therefore my anxiety
should be overcome for the sake of the one asking the question.
Surely there is some advice that would be applicable to all
that I could offer with the purest of intents and that will ensure some general
application of good will? For example,
you most certainly don’t want to clip your drains (that dreaded D word) to your
waist band. I feel positive you will find the wisdom in that advice the first
time you head to that bathroom, forget you have the drains clipped there, and then
pull your pants down. Everyone in the household at that very moment will also
remember that piece of advice given with the most sincere of intents. But even
this seems like strange advice on the day of surgery when you are simply trying
to get yourself through that OR appointment with sanity intact. What do you
need at that moment in time when you ask me that question????
As I search my heart and my experience, I recognize I have a great need to know people are there. Not only in kind words or prayer (I am very purposely
focusing on myself that I will never ever say “my prayers are with you” unless I truly intend to pray otherwise this is a slap in the face of God as well as to my
walk), but also an assurance of physical
proximity. There are times when you just need a smiling face or a reminder that
a dear friend is just a phone call away. That would be my advice to friends of someone
going through mastectomy. Don't say what you won't do, and do you best to be there in the first few weeks post procedure. Drop by with brownies. Offer to walk their dog. Show up with the lawn mower. Pull out the hose to water some plants. Send movies and books. And if she isn't up for visitors, which surely could be the case early on, drop a note in the mail or leave something on the doorstep, ring the bell, then go run hide in the bushes (fun for all involved!). I am the first to admit that this "action" of service is hard for me and it is something I am working on in present state, so I am trying to heed my very own advice here as a friend to others going through tough moments. So friends who are supporting someone through a moment, be the sincere kind of friend we would want to have in the same circumstance. Now, to the woman herself in mastectomy, after past reflection on my experience I would want to hear this
encouragement (I first heard these words recently at church and have since traced
them back to Casting Crowns): “We are not supposed to merely survive, we are
supposed to thrive.”
“We are not supposed to merely survive, we are supposed to
thrive.”
“We are not supposed to merely survive, we are supposed to
THRIVE.” I need to let that sink in. I need to mull over its goodness and grace
and realize this nugget of truth can be be applied to any and all events in life. Why can't I master this? I
spend so much of my time simply trying to get through a moment with all my appendages
still attached (survive) while I complain about its every second, doing nothing but watering
down its purpose and intent while simultaneously ensuring the misery of anyone
within ear shot of my words. I dig and I dig to get my head above the soil. I
spend each waking moment simply trying to survive. Then that is exactly where I
stop...after I have sulked it to death and made everyone else around me miserable. I complain and I survive. I've mastered that! I can only imagine how much better serving I would be if I
somehow managed to focus instead on not only the aspect of survival of each and
every event in life, but to also thrive! Can I find a way to let grace seep into all the nooks and
crannies of my experience and in turn find a way to make myself something more
useful and worthy of this breath of air on the other side? Could I not only survive, but thrive
into being more of what He wants me to be when all is said and done? What if I took
those words of complaint and instead magically morphed them into words of
testament of provision in the difficult times? What if I sought to find a way
to turn a downtrodden mess into an accolade of faith? What if every single time
I claimed it to be exactly what it was intended to be….an opportunity…to be
more…on the other side? I'm not saying our current moment is not hard, it is REAL and it is HARD. I've spilled many tears in mastectomy, and lymphoma, and heart break, and loss, and on and on. We still feel the struggle to our cores and we hurt beyond belief. Emotions will happen. And I’m not saying
this has to happen in real-time (though I fully believe it could for some), but rather
that this becomes part of the process of healing that happens as you go and as you grow. It's simply put an opportunity to redefine
pieces of myself that would, in result, propel me into breaking the shackles of
feeling “plagued, burdened, worried, anxious” (and this list goes on of all the
things we claim during hardship). THIS is who I want to be. A person who finds
a way to thrive. Mere survival is for those who have no hope, but look around
you at all the people who chose to thrive and find a way to get there. I think of a friend whose husband was killed by friendly fire while she was 8 months pregnant and how now she spends her time advocating for and with other military widows. Then of the mother who lost her 2 year old son to a diagnosis and now she had an annual golf event that raises thousands of dollars ($42,000 this year!) to give back to the cause. And the young girl, sexually abused, who grew up to open a school for ladies leaving the life of prostitution behind. Then the divorcee who now leads a support group in her home for young wives who find themselves alone. I dare
not attempt to define what this should look like for you, because I think it is
each to their own as seen in these tangible examples here, but I do know that when you purposely seek something out, it
has a way of finding you where you are. Being open to the concept of thriving
in and of itself makes it a possibility and thriving completely changes the outcome. It takes purposeful action and a willingness
to rise above circumstance and allowing Joy to find it's way back into your every day. It’s learning to find that silver lining and
letting it propel you into a better version of yourself….and it takes time. I'm still learning to thrive in each of my circumstances, but I am on the road moving forward all the same.
So this is my advice (albeit now admittedly borrowed from a
nationally known musician), find your way to not merely survive mastectomy (divorce,
loss, unemployment, financial woes, wayward children, infertility, etc.), but
to THRIVE in mastectomy. Whatever that may look like and in whatever timing
that may occur in for you do everything you can to get there…on the other side…a
better version of you. And when you are feeling lost in survival, grab on to someone who has traversed the road before you. They know the way. They can help get you to the other side. Then tag, you are it. Go thrive!
Psalm 143:8
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,
for I have put my trust in you.
Show me the way I should go,
for to you I entrust my life.
April 29, 2015 - Over a salad plate
It’s the question that plagues us all, those of us who are
Christ-followers, when we so very often find ourselves tangled in the web of
deciphering God’s will: “Which way would he have us go?” This question comes up
for me time and time again! And because
I am a “pleaser”, so very much wanting to be what He wants me to be, I often
find myself paralyzed by this question. I have no struggle with knowing and
embracing that His will is ALWAYS better than my own (I’m blessed in that
attribute) but this is likely the root cause of my constant pursuit of
deciphering how to remain on the path he chose for me (and note that my knowing
this truth, doesn’t mean I am always successful in choosing Him over me). I am
fully cognizant of my ability to mess stuff up beyond recognition and my fear
of that is a constant motivator. So I take very seriously trying to choose what
God would have me do, maybe even selfishly, to ensure my joy. And because he
has yet to audibly speak to me, I’m left to figure it all out as go. I need that burning bush. I crave that shout
out from the mountain top. And where is
my Gabriel messenger? Does he not know I would follow his words because I so
fully know his way results in so much more joy than my own selfish-chosen path
through this life? He has proven that time and time again to me. I could be an
ideal candidate to receive that stone tablet, as I truly don’t envision a lot
of kicking and screaming on my end to abide by his mapped out plan. But what
happens when his plan is not obvious to me? The turmoil of the deciphering is
exhausting.
I’m holding the vacuum hose up to the ceiling while standing
on tiptoes and teetering in arm-exhaustion trying to keep it perched “just so” in
the seam of the freshly spackled ceiling as Ron is up on the ladder with
sandpaper in constant movement. And at that moment I’m in awe of what we are
doing. It’s 9:45 at night, exhausted,
and we still have several more tasks to complete before the following morning.
Here we are doing something that just 2 months before seemed unfathomable. Our
forever home, not our dream home, but our home that we chose purposely to take
us into the frailty of geriatrics, is about to be sold. And as we repair and
paint the last ceiling divot, I stand there mesmerized at what was about to
unfold. A quick reminder of “never say never” and the uncertainty of the
“knowns” of life. In recent weeks God, on numerous occasions, has prompted our
heart to be open to transition. This willingness to give up our comfort zone in
a trade out for the yet to be determined was knocking at our door. We felt this
very strong pull to sell our home and move instead into
something…different…with no place to go, a much smaller budget, and against the
stream of this American Dream. On paper it seems bizarre and in contrast to
everything we understood for ourselves in days of past, but in our hearts there
was this understanding of some not-yet-defined purpose and intent. Many were
calling us crazy, and some were watching our every step in anticipation of how
this would fall out. Even we couldn’t answer the questions of those around us.
We simply knew we were being prompted to go…to someplace to be determined. An
in that there was this indescribable peace. This understanding that should He
ask you to go, you pick up your mat and you go. And what would lie in your
tomorrow, no matter how different, or less, or confusing it may seem, it would
somehow result in so much more. Now let me stop here and say that this came
over the course of many weeks for me. Ron somehow found himself on that
bandwagon very early, but I did a little hokey pokey dance in my commitment
level. One foot in, next day the same foot would be right back out, then the
arms following in the same in and out jig. But as I prayed and prayed and prayed,
and revisited the moments of past of God’s faithfulness in my life, I found
myself leaving my foot, my arm, in the circle for longer periods of time until
one day, almost without awareness of what had happened, I found myself “all
in”. Next thing I knew, I was standing in my closet, on my tip toes, holding
the vacuum hose at the ceiling in the closet where I had just recently
discovered the true condition of my heart when trying to part with just 1 of 13
sweaters. In that same closet I found peace in the understanding that my goals
would not always align with His and that His would trump mine every single
time. Those of you that truly know me and have seen my failures and
accomplishments in this life know this is a huge thing for this infiniti-driving,
silver-spoon carrying, women of privileged standards. Only God could have
transitioned my self-serving vain heart to seek him over my desire to have the
comforts I have so purposely collected. Only God could have provided me a peace
in the elements of this wide open slate of selling our “forever house” where we
didn’t even have the very first inkling of how and what? And in my exhaustion
while holding a vacuum hose, while my husband sanded away at the excess
spackle, I felt in tune.
The next morning, while I sat having lunch with a group of
mentors, my husband sat in the middle of our bedroom in great prayer for
guidance and wisdom in this decision we were pursuing as his heart had suddenly
gone from peaceful to anxious. While my peace became solidified in a
conversation over a salad plate, Ron’s began to unravel. In the span of a
few hours we were trading places and the answers to our prayers becoming more
evident. While I had prayed for peace to do what would be difficult and for acute
awareness of the condition of my worldly heart, Ron was praying for wisdom and
guidance as the leader of our household as to how this would all unfold. And as
the days passed and the prayers became more intense, his peace with moving began
to unravel as God started to answer his prayer for wisdom.
So you ask me, Sally, how was this an answer to prayer? And
I can easily say that God was working on Ron and I individually knowing the
states of our individual hearts. I have to wander if this journey was all about
me and the need to re-align my goals and pursuits in this life. God bringing me
to a point of surrender and then to an incredible sense of peace broke the
stronghold this “stuff” of the American dream had me under. His allowance of
anxiety in Ron’s heart as we approached this “sell date” spoke to us that this
was about the journey of being willing to give things up, but that he wasn’t
yet calling us to the actual decision. (Genesis 22 for full story- Abraham, take your son and lie him on
the altar. Abraham, in your obedience as you carried your son to the altar, I
now provide you instead with a substitute sacrifice to take his place). I think
this process was about us discovering what we held dear and to get to a place
where we “could” and “would” walk away from it all if needed. I don’t know if
the full purpose of this exercise will be understood anytime soon. But I do
know it is in preparation for “something” and that I am a better specimen of
humanity today than I was in the days of yesterday as a result.
So while the lock box was removed from our door handle
yesterday as we ended our pursuit to sell and chose to stay in our current house, the condition of my heart became a
little less self-focused and a little more in alignment with the Sally He
intended me to be. And the bond of our marriage became stronger as we sought,
in unison and persistence, his plan for our lives and trusted him beyond our
understanding of “what next”. Some of the most mentally exhausting weeks of our
recent years, but some of the most fruitful and eye-opening in return. Thank
you, Lord, for getting me past the ugliness of Sally and showing me once again
that your way is the only true path to Joy.
(And now to find a way to ensure I hang on to that for more than a month!)
April 24, 2015 - Old Made New
My mind is all a jumble. Swirls of this and that like oil drops skimming across a leftover rain puddle on the driveway. Just when you think you have the pattern figured out, the loop transitions just as quickly into a new pattern of blue, green, and red. You stand there mesmerized by the variations, but still unable to figure out the pattern and making sense of what is what no matter how hard you look. Constantly moving, shifting, swirling. We are in all sorts of disarray. Nothing serious, just this and that mingling us into a to-do list of enormous magnitude and complexity. We took a week off for my birthday a week ago and headed to the Caribbean for some R&R and while that was relaxing and a great release from the here and now, we returned to find our plate even more scrambled. I'm longing for that beach side cabana chair again where the only thing that plagued our minds was if it was time to reapply sunscreen and how long had it been since our last nap.
I've shared with you some details around our house- to sell or not to sell. And while each day grew us closer to a decision to sell (to the point of meeting with agent, settling on a list price, and having a pre-sale house showing to someone who heard we might be selling all in 24 hours after returning from our trip), these past few days have that turned up topsy turvy again. We so desperately want to honor God in this process and as such have prayed for and sought wisdom and clarity with a ferocious tenacity, yet at the 23rd hour things again came to a crashing halt. Previously for me, this time for Ron. We live in a market where you put your house on the market that morning, that afternoon you have 6 showings, that evening you have 4 offers. So very awesome for sellers, so very terrifying for buying. Ron and I have worries about being able to find a house with us working full time and houses going under contract the day or two after they list. How can we keep up with that pace and working full time? And living in an apartment again until you can find a new house. Woe is me and my vain self. But we know God provides if and when God calls. What a journey this has been as we learn about ourselves, our prayer lives, our dependency on each other, and even our vanity and lack there of. I honestly have found myself in a place I never could have imagined and it's a place where I have much more trust in myself and in God's ability to take something old (me) and make it (me) something new and better than before. His grace surely is enough to sustain me, and these 4 house walls are of the here and now are no longer a sustainer of my heart's content. I've learned I truly can part with these earthly items and that contentment comes outside of material gain. NOW, to see just how far God is going to take this for Ron and I. I have a lock box on my door, but have not yet committed to the sign in the yard. He has something in store, this I know, and I realize this process in and of itself may have been the true goal. I have so many of your praying for us in this, so I wanted to give you the update though I realize it is not all that informative as of yet.
I turned forty (absolutely no reflection on my mental disarray. smile). Yes, it happened. It is here and now it is gone as I guess I officially start my 41st year. As we all ask ourselves at this time point, "how in the world did we get here?" It seems just 5 years ago I was sitting in a wooden desk in a classroom trying to figure out if x = y then z = whatever it equals. Long gone are my blond pigtails and scraped up knees. Hello, wrinkled necks and floppy bellies. This week while sitting in a cafe, the waitress, in her 60s, was telling me about a plot with her 3 sisters to draw a line down the center of their chest and measure who has the saggiest boobs (I seriously don't know why she shared this with me but I think my telling her I just turned 40 started it. And how could I NOT share her story with you as well?). I almost broke out in a version of "do your boobs hang low..." but I quickly pulled myself together before embarrassing both her and myself. I got a great chuckle at this genius embracing of mid-age, and then got an even greater chuckle when I realized I certainly would lose (win?) that sag contest with boob 1 and boob 2.2 perfectly located where they should be ...well sort of, considering one implant has slipped out of place and the other is constricted up in a death grip of scar tissue. But all of that will be taken care of and I will soon be back to the victor of un-saggy impostors. Yep, another silver lining of mastectomy reconstruction. Still I encourage all of you to participate in this game of hilarity with your gal pals. Get out your magic markers and draw that line! Acceptance and tons of laughter. It sure does free up life for more important things!
Surgery #6 is approximately 3 months away (I could tell you the exact count-down but that would reveal it's role in my every day life, and I certainly don't want to admit defeat). It's not the dread of the procedure itself....ok, Sally, Shut up! It totally is the dread of the procedure. That stinking drain! My arch-nemesis. And then those stitches with Ron having to inspect the area every day to look for problems. The no showering. The surgical bra that turns into sports bras for weeks on end. The month long lifting restrictions. Blah, blah, blah. One would think that after 6 goes at this I would be much more embracing, just as I was lecturing to you just one paragraph above. I definitely can claim "most improved" in that, but am far from certified in this task. I do in fact dread this the least of all the surgeries, maybe that is a numbness of here-we-go-again, but it still sits on my mental calendar every day. I only thought about it twice on vacation so I am making strides which I openly celebrate.
Three months away - and somehow we might fit in selling a house, moving from a house, (moving into an apartment?) buying a house, and moving into a house all in that time frame before the lift restrictions come into play. Ron and I sure know how to keep things exciting (as we went to bed at 7:30 for the last two night in sheer exhaustion. Ok, so maybe we aren't all that exciting after all)! Thank you for your ongoing prayers for us as we seek out our role in God's plan.
Each month brings something new.
I've shared with you some details around our house- to sell or not to sell. And while each day grew us closer to a decision to sell (to the point of meeting with agent, settling on a list price, and having a pre-sale house showing to someone who heard we might be selling all in 24 hours after returning from our trip), these past few days have that turned up topsy turvy again. We so desperately want to honor God in this process and as such have prayed for and sought wisdom and clarity with a ferocious tenacity, yet at the 23rd hour things again came to a crashing halt. Previously for me, this time for Ron. We live in a market where you put your house on the market that morning, that afternoon you have 6 showings, that evening you have 4 offers. So very awesome for sellers, so very terrifying for buying. Ron and I have worries about being able to find a house with us working full time and houses going under contract the day or two after they list. How can we keep up with that pace and working full time? And living in an apartment again until you can find a new house. Woe is me and my vain self. But we know God provides if and when God calls. What a journey this has been as we learn about ourselves, our prayer lives, our dependency on each other, and even our vanity and lack there of. I honestly have found myself in a place I never could have imagined and it's a place where I have much more trust in myself and in God's ability to take something old (me) and make it (me) something new and better than before. His grace surely is enough to sustain me, and these 4 house walls are of the here and now are no longer a sustainer of my heart's content. I've learned I truly can part with these earthly items and that contentment comes outside of material gain. NOW, to see just how far God is going to take this for Ron and I. I have a lock box on my door, but have not yet committed to the sign in the yard. He has something in store, this I know, and I realize this process in and of itself may have been the true goal. I have so many of your praying for us in this, so I wanted to give you the update though I realize it is not all that informative as of yet.
I turned forty (absolutely no reflection on my mental disarray. smile). Yes, it happened. It is here and now it is gone as I guess I officially start my 41st year. As we all ask ourselves at this time point, "how in the world did we get here?" It seems just 5 years ago I was sitting in a wooden desk in a classroom trying to figure out if x = y then z = whatever it equals. Long gone are my blond pigtails and scraped up knees. Hello, wrinkled necks and floppy bellies. This week while sitting in a cafe, the waitress, in her 60s, was telling me about a plot with her 3 sisters to draw a line down the center of their chest and measure who has the saggiest boobs (I seriously don't know why she shared this with me but I think my telling her I just turned 40 started it. And how could I NOT share her story with you as well?). I almost broke out in a version of "do your boobs hang low..." but I quickly pulled myself together before embarrassing both her and myself. I got a great chuckle at this genius embracing of mid-age, and then got an even greater chuckle when I realized I certainly would lose (win?) that sag contest with boob 1 and boob 2.2 perfectly located where they should be ...well sort of, considering one implant has slipped out of place and the other is constricted up in a death grip of scar tissue. But all of that will be taken care of and I will soon be back to the victor of un-saggy impostors. Yep, another silver lining of mastectomy reconstruction. Still I encourage all of you to participate in this game of hilarity with your gal pals. Get out your magic markers and draw that line! Acceptance and tons of laughter. It sure does free up life for more important things!
Surgery #6 is approximately 3 months away (I could tell you the exact count-down but that would reveal it's role in my every day life, and I certainly don't want to admit defeat). It's not the dread of the procedure itself....ok, Sally, Shut up! It totally is the dread of the procedure. That stinking drain! My arch-nemesis. And then those stitches with Ron having to inspect the area every day to look for problems. The no showering. The surgical bra that turns into sports bras for weeks on end. The month long lifting restrictions. Blah, blah, blah. One would think that after 6 goes at this I would be much more embracing, just as I was lecturing to you just one paragraph above. I definitely can claim "most improved" in that, but am far from certified in this task. I do in fact dread this the least of all the surgeries, maybe that is a numbness of here-we-go-again, but it still sits on my mental calendar every day. I only thought about it twice on vacation so I am making strides which I openly celebrate.
Three months away - and somehow we might fit in selling a house, moving from a house, (moving into an apartment?) buying a house, and moving into a house all in that time frame before the lift restrictions come into play. Ron and I sure know how to keep things exciting (as we went to bed at 7:30 for the last two night in sheer exhaustion. Ok, so maybe we aren't all that exciting after all)! Thank you for your ongoing prayers for us as we seek out our role in God's plan.
Each month brings something new.
April 9, 2015 - The Big D
I had set a calendar reminder. I'm very guilty of doing the things "experts" suggest I don't. I use my email inbox as a to do list and have such great satisfaction in clicking "delete" after I finish a task. "Write orders for admission". Delete! Great satisfaction. Jovial delight. And for things that are not a specific time/date dependent, I send myself an email with the task in the subject line. "Send thank you note for the gift". Delete! I'm not afraid to admit it's kind of a highlight of my work day. Delete! Sheer excitement with a matching grin across my face. "Pack for trip". Delete! It's the Big D word that propels my day into greatness. (And I don't agree with the email experts of the world - us type A folks need this structure for sanity.)
The calendar reminder popped up on my screen and read "Contact Surgeon to confirm surgery date". I had no trouble with this task. Open up my email box. New message. Draft the question "Greetings! You had asked me to touch base with you in April and confirm the surgical date we had set for August. Is this still a go?" Sign and send. Open calendar reminder. Delete! One more thing off the to-do list for this week. And move on to item number 4 of the day "Print documents for meeting". Delete! The Big D word was working quite well for me today and I was on a roll!
This day is certainly a success! Flash in the lower right hand of my computer screen - incoming mail.
Hi Sally:
The other Big D word. The MOST IMPORTANT D word that I know ever since August 7, 2012. The D word I thought I would never have to embrace again. The D word that didn't come up when we discussed plans for this upcoming surgery. Mercy me, there it is right smack dab in the email staring me in the face without any room for
Deniability. Reply:
That all sounds terrific (minus the drain! But I totally want to have a drain if that is the best outcome). Thank you as always. This will be the last one. I'm sure of it, so i can do a drain one more time....my mental pep talk.
Sally
Hit send. DELETE! This time a tad less satisfactory and now questioning whether this email calender reminder is such a great thing after all. No reminder = no checking in = living oblivious to the Detail. Defeated, Deflated, Disgusted, Dreading, Down-right Dog-gone Down. I had a lot of new Big D words crossing my mind at that moment to surround the true Big D word in a crushing Disdain.
I will pull myself together in Delight again next week. This week, Disgruntled. I allow myself 72 hours to mourn this Drain. Then I refuse to think of it again! Disclaimer: I realize it will sit there just under the surface. Dread it; loathe it.
The calendar reminder popped up on my screen and read "Contact Surgeon to confirm surgery date". I had no trouble with this task. Open up my email box. New message. Draft the question "Greetings! You had asked me to touch base with you in April and confirm the surgical date we had set for August. Is this still a go?" Sign and send. Open calendar reminder. Delete! One more thing off the to-do list for this week. And move on to item number 4 of the day "Print documents for meeting". Delete! The Big D word was working quite well for me today and I was on a roll!
This day is certainly a success! Flash in the lower right hand of my computer screen - incoming mail.
Hi Sally:
Just confirmed his summer plans last week.
He is here and the time is available on Thursday August 6th.
The surgery will be at the same location with a drain tube that will likely come out the following Wednesday 8/12.
Did you see it? There it sits. Yep, right there on the screen to where now all the other words are now without meaning and obsolete.
Just confirmed his summer plans last week.
He is here and the time is available on Thursday August 6th.
The surgery will be at the same location with a DRAIN tube that will likely come out the following Wednesday 8/12.
Deniability. Reply:
That all sounds terrific (minus the drain! But I totally want to have a drain if that is the best outcome). Thank you as always. This will be the last one. I'm sure of it, so i can do a drain one more time....my mental pep talk.
Sally
Hit send. DELETE! This time a tad less satisfactory and now questioning whether this email calender reminder is such a great thing after all. No reminder = no checking in = living oblivious to the Detail. Defeated, Deflated, Disgusted, Dreading, Down-right Dog-gone Down. I had a lot of new Big D words crossing my mind at that moment to surround the true Big D word in a crushing Disdain.
I will pull myself together in Delight again next week. This week, Disgruntled. I allow myself 72 hours to mourn this Drain. Then I refuse to think of it again! Disclaimer: I realize it will sit there just under the surface. Dread it; loathe it.
March 31, 2015 - Swimming in the storm
As I sat on the stretcher with a grimace splattered across my face, and as she sat at the side of the stretcher relentlessly jamming a needle in and out of my calf, I started to get the inkling that every day life is not always compatible with the faint of heart. Am I really sitting here in this cubical choosing this procedure? And how come the paper work didn't describe this intense pain that felt as though you had been hooked up to an electric probe? And was I really sitting here listening to her describe their last Disney vacation and all its hour after hour small world fun while she jabbed the "electricity" on again and again? (she's delightful for sure, I'm just stressing the surreal moment.) Dry needling, also incompatible with the faint of heart.
Each day we wake up, rolling out of bed (some more energized than others), not sure what we will find on the other side of the bedroom door. We may even have it all mapped out. Shower, breakfast bagels, makeup, morning commute, premium parking, meeting number one, paperwork number 45, phone call number 15 all before lunch. But just as sure as you get the first 3 hours inked on to the memo pad, you inevitably find something unexpected barrels its way into your moment. It's a constant up and down and right and left and anyone with any sense of type A strategic personality will quickly find themselves prey to the mayhem. And even those whimsical NON type A (how do you do it?) persons find themselves being pulled involuntarily into another unexpected moment of life. You may mind a little less, because you didn't have a to-do list to begin with compared to those of us who strategize every waking hour, but we all find the unexpected moments unsettling.
I started this blog as a memorial to my now mastectomized breasts. They are gone, but never forgotten (ok, well by me anyway). They've gracefully, rather not so gracefully, been replaced by two almost endearing imposters. And that storm of life is now rather a rainy mist of days gone by. Temporarily anyway. But wouldn't you know it? Just when you think you have one storm off the radar, one glance on the horizon and you see the assembly of cumulonimbus fluffs. You quickly gather your wits enough to know opposing forces are beginning to clash. Drop, drop, drop. Plop, plop, plop. Scanning the horizon for shelter and quickly finding it's 25 raindrops too late. You are smack dab in the middle of your next storm. If it's not mastectomy, it's dry needling for combative calves. If it's not unemployment, it's struggling to get all 3 kids to the right place at the right time on any given day. It's exhaustion, it's presumed failure, it's a diagnosis, it's circumstance. All of them are life's storms and we are all simply learning to swim instead of sink.
I'm finding we are drastically over critical of ourselves in those moments. We hold up an imaginary-poorly calibrated-designed by Mrs Perfect- measuring stick which should be set on fire and thrown out with yesterday's trash. Yet we cling to it with every fiber of our being trying to measure up to something we certainly can't be every moment of every day. Did we pray enough? Did we cry too much? Did we fumble at every yard line? And then we call ourselves "failure" for not doing or being enough. I recall those moments in mastectomy where I wondered if I let it get too much of me. Did I give my natural boobs too much credit? Was this really that big of a deal? Well, what we need to do is dump every inch of that doubting measuring stick in the trash for above all else, His grace is enough!
I want to reclaim life not as we know it and design it to be, but as God knows it and designs us to be. I want to swim in every storm not with perfection or accolades, but with faith and grace with strong strokes when I can and doggie paddle with a sideline of true friendship when I can't. Doggie paddles still get me to the finish line, right? And I want to claim God's provision in every storm and come out on the other side a little better than I was going in. I'm choosing to swim. I'm choosing to equip myself with tools that make my life compatible with any storm. I may look like a wet labradoodle paddling his heart out, but I know a labradoodle will jump in every single time and come out smiling and wagging his tail!
So I don't know what the next blog page will bring, but I do know I want to continue with transparency where I can. God has brought me so much closer to many of you through this journey. And he has brought me closer to him as I shared those moments with you. Right now we are in a moment of deciding whether to sell our house or stay put (see previous blog post to catch up) and also trying to figure out the timing of that (if we decide to move) in light of another surgery coming up this summer. This has been a very challenging month for us as we seek to hear his plan for us as he grows our hearts for becoming "less". I'm hopeful we have it all figured out soon...for this too does not feel compatible with the faint of heart. It is tugging our pride, greed, and comfort in so many directions and challenging me to faithfully sit still and listen. It's a storm that needed to take place and will no doubt prepare me for something else on the horizon, but until all is made clear, we sit. And we listen. And very soon I know we will swim.
March 20, 2015 - My house is not my home.
I can't adequately explain the timing of this picture, which most have you have seen by now via my social media page, but to say it had a profound impact on me in my "tiny enormous life" adventure (see link here to catch up Enormous Tiny Life) would be an understatement of grand proportions. I wish you could have been in my head the many minutes prior to opening my garage door that morning (anxiety, selfishness, greed) and then again in the many hours afterwards (hope, trust, faith) in seeing this view. That moment of "voila, I make all things whole!". My mind: the contrast as of speckled to solid, gelatinous to sturdy, wavering to confident, pitiful to whole. I, in a stark moment, became acutely confident of God's sovereignty when he calls to you to trust in him.
Ron and I have been seeking clarity and discernment in an issue that matters all to much to me. In our quest to find tiny, we are being prompted, asked, tempted(?) to give up something quite precious and comfortable. Our house. My perfect little house of the exact proportions suited to my needs. The right level of comfort and content and location. My dream house of reasonable dreams. The house that made perfect human sense for the state of life in which I find myself. And to my introverted self, my haven. MY home. What???
Being prompted, asked, tempted (?) to give up your home can bring you to your knees in a few seconds flat. Take my sweater - yes that one that I couldn't part with in my closet because I wore it twice last year - as it is certainly now very easy to give up in comparison, but do not take my home. Everything is relative, right? And yet there it sits, the prompting, the asking, the tempting, day after day as I find myself swinging from greed, to trust, to disbelief, to pride, back to trusting, then straight to the greed of square footage funneling in the vat of mindfulness all in a span of 3 minutes. This confrontation of faith versus self is seriously challenging and takes a toll on every moment of your day! Give up our home? Anything but that. I'm happy to offer you my material anything else.
What started as a prompting to be more purposeful in our days, and more in tune with having a little less of the American dream, became a prodding of minimization and freeing up our finances and lifestyles to whatever was around the next corner for us, not by our planning and manipulating, but by God's choosing for us...whatever that may be. There wasn't a stark revelation, but rather an underlying current moving us to toward less of this and more of that. A desire to be more aligned and better tuned so that we were simply better at life. It's murky in that we have no idea what that will look like, but very clear at the same time that only good will come of that. And in that process our "movie screen" paused on a picture of our house, something we held very dear. (I blame Ron. He started all of this. Wink). My house, which represents everything my soul does not. And it holds my everything. Every tangible possession I've collected throughout. It's my treasure collector. It's my safe zone. It's how I shut the rest of the world out after a frustrating job-filled day with one closing of the garage door. And there the question was being brought to the forefront "can you give up your house?". It was a definite change in events and out of left field. It came screeching around the corner in Amtrak Speed and precision. But it was certainly not on our schedule and surely it wasn't pulling into our station. With one sound of the train whistle, the movie plot got play-dough thick.
As we continue to sort through the current character development plot, I am finding that I'm not entirely sure if it is a specific outcome that is to be reached. I'm not sure this house or that house is the end point. Current square footage, lesser square footage, more square footage. Current zip code, different zip code, no zip code. I believe it all can bring great things when you heart is aligned. But I am quite assured instead that this process of trying to hear God's voice is growing Ron and I in ways that had not been measurable before. Am I WILLING to leave it all behind? That is the first most evident question we are being asked. This short month of contemplate is taking us places we had not traversed in the 6 years prior, and the richness of that is astounding. For our marriage, for our trust in God's provisions, for our view of the world around us, and for introspective searching and revealing of the condition of our hearts. I'm not confident God is commanding me to leave my home, this structure of plank and nail, but rather revealing to us the whether we love him enough to do that which we would have previously considered absurd if he were to ask us t, particularly when the outcome is not yet known. Our pride and greed had us in a fingertip grip of massive proportions to the frame of our dwelling door. And in that we are finding that living a life fully devoted to him is willingness to leave it all behind if asked. And to recognize that not only in that will you find content, but you will find fulfillment and joy beyond anything imaginable in plank and nail. This house is not my home. The planks of wood not my confident. This garden tub not my sanctuary. And I'm beyond certain that my life through him is my eternal reward. So step away from me, luxury granite counter top! You shall have no hold over me! (....though for full disclosure just last night when viewing another house, I was desperately embracing my 2 car garage. I'm trying, I'm not perfect. It's a struggle that is very real for us all.
)
Our conflict seems absurd on a secular level. Most of those around us will find us idiotic. And that is not lost on me. (Who leaves their "perfect house" when there isn't a reason to? No job loss, no relocation orders, no need for more space.) It makes no sense. We certainly aren't all on the same path here in life. But he path for Ron and I is ours and we are right in the middle of it and it's our Here and Now. Are we willing to let our faith be our walk? I know not where I will lay my head 4 months from now, but I know where I want to lay my heart. May I be more in tune tomorrow than I am today.
__________________________
Disclaimer: Before you abandon this blog ship, I do realize these past 2 posts have drifted quite a ways from the blogging of mastectomy. And for that I offer awareness of my faux pas. Mastectomy is a piece of my whole. Surgery #6 in August will bring us all back around in no time. For now, I am basking in a few months of life outside of mastectomy and giving you a glimpse of the rest of me. Maybe next week I will be back to the hilarity that can be found in my adventures at the grocery store. Commitment issues don't bode well when picking out fresh mozzarella (or new houses for that matter!).
__________________________
Ron and I have been seeking clarity and discernment in an issue that matters all to much to me. In our quest to find tiny, we are being prompted, asked, tempted(?) to give up something quite precious and comfortable. Our house. My perfect little house of the exact proportions suited to my needs. The right level of comfort and content and location. My dream house of reasonable dreams. The house that made perfect human sense for the state of life in which I find myself. And to my introverted self, my haven. MY home. What???
Being prompted, asked, tempted (?) to give up your home can bring you to your knees in a few seconds flat. Take my sweater - yes that one that I couldn't part with in my closet because I wore it twice last year - as it is certainly now very easy to give up in comparison, but do not take my home. Everything is relative, right? And yet there it sits, the prompting, the asking, the tempting, day after day as I find myself swinging from greed, to trust, to disbelief, to pride, back to trusting, then straight to the greed of square footage funneling in the vat of mindfulness all in a span of 3 minutes. This confrontation of faith versus self is seriously challenging and takes a toll on every moment of your day! Give up our home? Anything but that. I'm happy to offer you my material anything else.
What started as a prompting to be more purposeful in our days, and more in tune with having a little less of the American dream, became a prodding of minimization and freeing up our finances and lifestyles to whatever was around the next corner for us, not by our planning and manipulating, but by God's choosing for us...whatever that may be. There wasn't a stark revelation, but rather an underlying current moving us to toward less of this and more of that. A desire to be more aligned and better tuned so that we were simply better at life. It's murky in that we have no idea what that will look like, but very clear at the same time that only good will come of that. And in that process our "movie screen" paused on a picture of our house, something we held very dear. (I blame Ron. He started all of this. Wink). My house, which represents everything my soul does not. And it holds my everything. Every tangible possession I've collected throughout. It's my treasure collector. It's my safe zone. It's how I shut the rest of the world out after a frustrating job-filled day with one closing of the garage door. And there the question was being brought to the forefront "can you give up your house?". It was a definite change in events and out of left field. It came screeching around the corner in Amtrak Speed and precision. But it was certainly not on our schedule and surely it wasn't pulling into our station. With one sound of the train whistle, the movie plot got play-dough thick.
As we continue to sort through the current character development plot, I am finding that I'm not entirely sure if it is a specific outcome that is to be reached. I'm not sure this house or that house is the end point. Current square footage, lesser square footage, more square footage. Current zip code, different zip code, no zip code. I believe it all can bring great things when you heart is aligned. But I am quite assured instead that this process of trying to hear God's voice is growing Ron and I in ways that had not been measurable before. Am I WILLING to leave it all behind? That is the first most evident question we are being asked. This short month of contemplate is taking us places we had not traversed in the 6 years prior, and the richness of that is astounding. For our marriage, for our trust in God's provisions, for our view of the world around us, and for introspective searching and revealing of the condition of our hearts. I'm not confident God is commanding me to leave my home, this structure of plank and nail, but rather revealing to us the whether we love him enough to do that which we would have previously considered absurd if he were to ask us t, particularly when the outcome is not yet known. Our pride and greed had us in a fingertip grip of massive proportions to the frame of our dwelling door. And in that we are finding that living a life fully devoted to him is willingness to leave it all behind if asked. And to recognize that not only in that will you find content, but you will find fulfillment and joy beyond anything imaginable in plank and nail. This house is not my home. The planks of wood not my confident. This garden tub not my sanctuary. And I'm beyond certain that my life through him is my eternal reward. So step away from me, luxury granite counter top! You shall have no hold over me! (....though for full disclosure just last night when viewing another house, I was desperately embracing my 2 car garage. I'm trying, I'm not perfect. It's a struggle that is very real for us all.
)
Our conflict seems absurd on a secular level. Most of those around us will find us idiotic. And that is not lost on me. (Who leaves their "perfect house" when there isn't a reason to? No job loss, no relocation orders, no need for more space.) It makes no sense. We certainly aren't all on the same path here in life. But he path for Ron and I is ours and we are right in the middle of it and it's our Here and Now. Are we willing to let our faith be our walk? I know not where I will lay my head 4 months from now, but I know where I want to lay my heart. May I be more in tune tomorrow than I am today.
__________________________
Disclaimer: Before you abandon this blog ship, I do realize these past 2 posts have drifted quite a ways from the blogging of mastectomy. And for that I offer awareness of my faux pas. Mastectomy is a piece of my whole. Surgery #6 in August will bring us all back around in no time. For now, I am basking in a few months of life outside of mastectomy and giving you a glimpse of the rest of me. Maybe next week I will be back to the hilarity that can be found in my adventures at the grocery store. Commitment issues don't bode well when picking out fresh mozzarella (or new houses for that matter!).
__________________________
For extra reading that landed on my plate this week:
March 17, 2015 - The enormous tiny life
I'm on a tiny journey. I'm not even sure how I got here. It's been a process over the last 6 months or so but becoming more readily apparent in the last few weeks. It's a movement of an enormous life becoming less enormous. I'm pulled here, I am pulled there, constantly filling my schedule with this, with that, buying one more table to fill that tiny hallway space, hodge-podging life, its circumstances, its possessions, to make it "more" than it was 3 minutes before. Unfortunately, more has made me feel like so much less. I feel weighted, dragging, bogged down with the ins and out of this enormous life. I've made it to my worldly goal, but in that accomplishment, I find little rest. Instead, I am seeking yet another goal after goal after goal to stay ahead of the time tables. As I watch everything grow, I'm being squashed out of what I was intended to be.
So if growing this enormous life is making me feel so tiny, could the opposite be true? What if I could make life so tiny that in fact it began to feel enormous, but in an entirely different way - full of purpose and content? I don't know if this mastectomy played role in that. I'd have to say it did, as every life shaking experience brings an inward evaluation. It propels you closer to the clarity of a God focused lens and away from the fogged up spectacle of humanity that we so easily embrace. So yes, maybe in some ways, Ron and I leapfrogging through mastectomy, the death of a parent, job transitions, and such all piled up into a 2 year span became a springboard for this process of re-evaluation of what this enormous life really meant to me. And realizing that focusing on becoming smaller could in fact merge me into something better - a whole different kind of enormous. In that smallness maybe we could find depth.
As Ron and I started feeling this stir, we had no idea exactly where it would go. In fact, we still don't know. But we are finding that the life we spent the last 6+ years nurturing and fabrication together piece by piece is filled with things of the here and now. The stuff. The gunk. The life-fillers that bring me closer to someone else's dream and less to that of what we think God placed us here for. As we spent our time making life bigger, we found we were missing our intended mark of making life smaller. More purposeful. More focused. More you focused. Less me focused. Less driven by someone else's standards of life. And there we sat, supposedly happy as a lark, in the defines of the Johnny Joe's standards. Three bedrooms two baths - check. Two cars - checks. Eight winter coats - check. Six pairs of jeans - check. More money coming in than going out - check. Job advances- check. But "happy" was becoming more transparent and that transparency brought about a reality. Was this what life was intended to be? Did this checklist of someone else's goals create in us a joyful and purposed reality? Was I more of a person today because of that newly acquired bracelet? Did my heart for other people grow when I added one more calendar event to my schedule?
We feel our hearts shifting to something smaller. I want to be in a place where there is more of me to give. Less of me to take. Though I don't yet exactly know what that is going to look like. I begin by standing here in the center of my closet with my 15 long sleeve t-shirts. And my 8 pairs of flip flops. And my 12 skirts (all the numbers being reasonable estimates). And as I struggle to purge down to 5 sweaters, I become acutely aware of my shallow heart when I can't bear to part with something I wore only twice last year. And if my heart couldn't part with a poly-blend sweater, how in the world could my heart part with anything else in a quest to make my life fuller? That closet, with the sizes too small or too large that I hope (or don't hope) to one day return to could instead be a new outfit for that single mother of 6 looking for a job with nothing to wear to the interview. As I sit frustrated in my closet day after day trying to find something among the 100 items to wear, there she sits trying to find anything that she could get her hands on without taking food off her table. And that drawer full of blankets, did I need 5 just in case North Carolina becomes a frozen tundra in year 2235, while she would be grateful for just one blanket so they all could sleep in their own bed? My "just in case" was a reflection of my stingy heart, while her "wish for" was a stark reality of how selfish I could be.
With that realization (and many others over the past so many weeks) came the motivation to purge, and as I watched my material possessions becoming smaller after this prodding of my heart, in great proportion my inner peace was growing larger. It all started with the closet, and I am eager to see where it goes next as I evaluate where my heart is for all matters of life. My schedule - being selective and purposeful with what and who gets to fill a time slot. My relationships - adding more people that fill me with wisdom and peace so that I may focus on giving that in return to those seeking the same. My home - making it a place that is safe so that people want to visit and that they may leave feeling full. My job - bleeding optimism and encouragement instead of pulling coworkers down into my negativity. My health - becoming a better me so that God may use me wherever he needs a vessel. My perspective - this world isn't about becoming great, but becoming small so there is less of me and more of you. And in that I hope you find there will be more of me to love and more love for me to give in return. I share this not as a testament of "look at me", but as a reflection of where I want to go and the prayer request to help get me there. May he finish the task he has started in me, and may I not be so stupid as to get in the way.
I'm giving thanks for moments like mastectomy where focus can be better tuned and a tiny life more enormous.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
So if growing this enormous life is making me feel so tiny, could the opposite be true? What if I could make life so tiny that in fact it began to feel enormous, but in an entirely different way - full of purpose and content? I don't know if this mastectomy played role in that. I'd have to say it did, as every life shaking experience brings an inward evaluation. It propels you closer to the clarity of a God focused lens and away from the fogged up spectacle of humanity that we so easily embrace. So yes, maybe in some ways, Ron and I leapfrogging through mastectomy, the death of a parent, job transitions, and such all piled up into a 2 year span became a springboard for this process of re-evaluation of what this enormous life really meant to me. And realizing that focusing on becoming smaller could in fact merge me into something better - a whole different kind of enormous. In that smallness maybe we could find depth.
As Ron and I started feeling this stir, we had no idea exactly where it would go. In fact, we still don't know. But we are finding that the life we spent the last 6+ years nurturing and fabrication together piece by piece is filled with things of the here and now. The stuff. The gunk. The life-fillers that bring me closer to someone else's dream and less to that of what we think God placed us here for. As we spent our time making life bigger, we found we were missing our intended mark of making life smaller. More purposeful. More focused. More you focused. Less me focused. Less driven by someone else's standards of life. And there we sat, supposedly happy as a lark, in the defines of the Johnny Joe's standards. Three bedrooms two baths - check. Two cars - checks. Eight winter coats - check. Six pairs of jeans - check. More money coming in than going out - check. Job advances- check. But "happy" was becoming more transparent and that transparency brought about a reality. Was this what life was intended to be? Did this checklist of someone else's goals create in us a joyful and purposed reality? Was I more of a person today because of that newly acquired bracelet? Did my heart for other people grow when I added one more calendar event to my schedule?
We feel our hearts shifting to something smaller. I want to be in a place where there is more of me to give. Less of me to take. Though I don't yet exactly know what that is going to look like. I begin by standing here in the center of my closet with my 15 long sleeve t-shirts. And my 8 pairs of flip flops. And my 12 skirts (all the numbers being reasonable estimates). And as I struggle to purge down to 5 sweaters, I become acutely aware of my shallow heart when I can't bear to part with something I wore only twice last year. And if my heart couldn't part with a poly-blend sweater, how in the world could my heart part with anything else in a quest to make my life fuller? That closet, with the sizes too small or too large that I hope (or don't hope) to one day return to could instead be a new outfit for that single mother of 6 looking for a job with nothing to wear to the interview. As I sit frustrated in my closet day after day trying to find something among the 100 items to wear, there she sits trying to find anything that she could get her hands on without taking food off her table. And that drawer full of blankets, did I need 5 just in case North Carolina becomes a frozen tundra in year 2235, while she would be grateful for just one blanket so they all could sleep in their own bed? My "just in case" was a reflection of my stingy heart, while her "wish for" was a stark reality of how selfish I could be.
With that realization (and many others over the past so many weeks) came the motivation to purge, and as I watched my material possessions becoming smaller after this prodding of my heart, in great proportion my inner peace was growing larger. It all started with the closet, and I am eager to see where it goes next as I evaluate where my heart is for all matters of life. My schedule - being selective and purposeful with what and who gets to fill a time slot. My relationships - adding more people that fill me with wisdom and peace so that I may focus on giving that in return to those seeking the same. My home - making it a place that is safe so that people want to visit and that they may leave feeling full. My job - bleeding optimism and encouragement instead of pulling coworkers down into my negativity. My health - becoming a better me so that God may use me wherever he needs a vessel. My perspective - this world isn't about becoming great, but becoming small so there is less of me and more of you. And in that I hope you find there will be more of me to love and more love for me to give in return. I share this not as a testament of "look at me", but as a reflection of where I want to go and the prayer request to help get me there. May he finish the task he has started in me, and may I not be so stupid as to get in the way.
I'm giving thanks for moments like mastectomy where focus can be better tuned and a tiny life more enormous.
Click www.tradinginthetatas.blogspot.com to access other posts.
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