Things Change

You may not believe, but just recently I got my first tattoo. Actually, I got three of them in the same day -- something I never thought I would do. But before you freak out too much, please know that each of my tattoos is no bigger than the point of a pencil lead. These are my new radiation marks!

A friend of mine thought it rather ironic that I would get tattoos now since I also am sporting a spiky hairdo I never would have chosen. In fact, people even treat me differently as I encounter store clerks and waitresses. Instead of "can I help you ma'am" I now get an enthusiastic "Heeyyy!" with big smiles and thumbs up. People with short spiky hairdos are apparently very fun and edgy -- so naturally, strangers assume the same about me. One day, a friend commented that she thought the cashier at Borders was flirting with me. "Probably not," I said. "I think it's just the hair."

All of the changes in my life over the past 10 1/2 months has been overwhelming at times. Even for a girl who usually thrives on change, this has been a little much. One of the first thoughts that crossed my mind when I received my cancer diagnosis was "things will never be the same." And the further I go into my story about cancer, I realize more and more how right I was.

But my new 'do has reminded me that different isn't worse. It's just different. And just as I am trying to embrace a look I would never have chosen, I'm also trying to embrace a life I would never have chosen. And I'm hoping in both cases, that it's actually better than what I would have picked.

Thankfully, knowing Jesus gives me the assurance that the course of my life as it is directed by Him IS better than a life I would have chosen, primarily because of the presence of pain. Left up to me, I would never choose the hard road. Every time I would follow the path of least resistance. In fact, I would probably follow the path of NO resistance. But Jesus not only allows pain into our lives, he uses it for good, redeems it into something beautiful, something we never would experience otherwise.

As Jerry Bridges puts it in Trusting God: Even When Life Hurts, "God's infinite wisdom is then displayed in bringing good out of even, beauty out of ashes. It is displayed in turning all the forces of evil that rage against His children into good for them. But the good that He brings about is often different from the good we envision."

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Funny thing about my hair -- I've typically worn it long and straight, at least since I escaped the big permed hair of the 80s. But lately, many people have looked at my crazy, spiky hair and suggested I keep it short. They say it really is more "me." I'm beginning to wonder if that's not true for the rest of my life, too.

"There's more to come: We continue to shout our praise even when we're hemmed in with troubles, because we know how troubles can develop passionate patience in us, and how that patience in turn forges the tempered steel of virtue, keeping us alert for whatever God will do next. In alert expectancy such as this, we're never left feeling shortchanged. Quite the contrary—we can't round up enough containers to hold everything God generously pours into our lives through the Holy Spirit!" - Romans 5:3-5 from The Message

Radiating Grace

So, I get up every morning and race around the house trying to find my clothes, pack my lunch, feed my dog, check my email. Sometimes I am putting my earrings and shoes on at the same time, and I always, always, eat breakfast in the car. Chugging a glass of milk and inhaling a piece of toast with jam has been breakfast for me for most of the past 5 years.

For the past two weeks, the only adjustment to my routine -- if you can call it that -- is I now park my car at the hospital instead of my office, and rather than sitting at my desk, I lie down on a hard machine. Then, for the next 15 minutes, I radiate. Or rather, I am radiated.

For my first treatment, I was radiated only with nuclear material. I had too much on my mind to feel otherwise. Beginning with day two, however, it dawned on me that 15 minutes of quiet, alone time could be spent much more productively than by worrying. So starting last Wednesday, I was radiated with nuclear material AND grace, as I spent the time praying to Jesus.

They tell me that when I leave the treatment room, that the radioactive waves that entered my body do not affect anyone else. But I don't believe the same is true of the grace. Today, a lady at work stopped me in the hallway, gave me a quick embrace, and with tears in her eyes said, "Every time I see you I just have to praise Jesus." That's nothing but God's grace radiating through me in ways I can take no credit for.

And God's people are radiating me with His grace through their generosity, yet again. Today, I had a warm dinner I didn't make, and a fresh cut lawn I didn't mow. For the next four weeks there is a schedule of people to bring me food, clean my house, fold my clothes, and care for my yard.

Grace, grace.

And on top of all of that, I am feeling pretty good. I've had a little nausea, and my energy level is slowly dropping. But I am still able to work full-time (especially with all the help around the house), and most of the time, I just feel pretty good.

Going Nuclear

It's official -- tomorrow, I am going "nucular." That is, I have my first of 25 daily radiation treatments tomorrow afternoon at 4 p.m. I believe it was my younger brother, Nick, who jokingly told me that I would soon become a weapon of mass destruction.

My doctors agreed on a somewhat conservative treatment approach with radition -- they will direct the radiation at an area roughly the size of a soda can just behind my belly button. They reasoned that this area for sure contained the cancer and because of the surgery could contain rogue cancer cells that were loosened and left behind. They decided not to radiate every lymph node in my abdomen and pelvis, because the cancer is just as likely to return somewhere else as it is in a lymph node. And they decided not to radiate everywhere the cancer could return, because quite frankly that could be just about anywhere and would mean radiating my entire abdomen at least. My radiation oncologist said this would be very risky and hard to tolerate and actually is not proven to be very effective given the side effects.

What my doctors did agree on is that this course of radiation is designed at its best to get rid of all the rest of the cancer, but at least to buy me some time before the next recurrence. The doctors are hoping I will have at least one year cancer-free before I would have to have more chemotherapy.

It was near this point in my conversation with the oncologist that I realized how easy it is to slip into worrying about the future. I started posing scenarios: what will we do if the cancer comes back in another lymph node? What about in my stomach wall? Then I stopped. "I can't do this," I told him. "I can't play this game. If you guys need to discuss and plan for the future, please do. But I can't."

And he graciously agreed.

But then, my doctor put his hand on my knee, explained that they need to think about the future so that they don't hurt me now or limit my options later, and then told me what I did need to know about the future. "Your take=away here," he said, "is that we have LOTS of options. If you get the news that the cancer is back, you need to know that there are a lot of things we can do."

It was nothing new he was telling me. My other oncologist had already explained that they are thinking about this as a chronic illness. But hearing it again almost sent me into a bad place. But the discipline of my faith keeps sending me back to today. What am I called to in this day? What do I have to be thankful for today? Jesus continues to walk closest to me as I live in this moment, not as I worry about the next.

Thanks for your prayers, friends. My doctor expects me to tolerate the next few weeks pretty well, but fatigue and nausea are fairly likely side effects. I need the courage and strength to face these days with hope.