I wrote about Libby from Don't Waste Your Cancer a while back and have continued to follow her story. You should too. Well I hadn't seen this video back from September until just now. A bunch of her young friends decided that since Libby had to cut off her gorgeous hair as preparation for chemo, that they would cut theirs off too. There is something about a girl's hair that is really important to her, so most women, especially those who prize their longer locks, can understand what a sacrifice it feels like to chop it all off.
Ladies, if you're ready for a cry then watch the video. These are some loyal young ladies who have learned how to love fiercely in a way only women can. I wonder who they learned it from. I have a pretty good idea though :)
Showing posts with label Cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cancer. Show all posts
Saturday, December 4
Saturday, November 6
Loving Like You Have Cancer
Whenever someone begins following my blog I look at what other blogs they read since we probably have similar taste. Thus I stumbled across an incredible story of a new mom diagnosed with cancer. (Thanks Randi.) I think the word "cancer" jumps off the page whenever I see it now since last October, so when I saw the title of the blog "Don't Waste Your Cancer" I clicked on the link immediately. After reading the introduction I went back to the first entry in order to read the story from its start.
Libby Ryder's story hits a little too close to home. She's in her mid 20's and she and her husband are "Young Life people". He's a area director in Virginia. They have a little daughter who is only a few months old. In July Libby was diagnosed with Lymphoma. Cancer always seems like a tragedy. No one ever deserves it, but it seems more cruel in certain stories like a brain tumor in a three year old or lymphoma in a 26 year old new mom. Libby's story is a compelling read and she never comes across as a victim despite the cruelty of her situation. I love reading because home-girl is honest, like really honest. Her faith is evident in each entry and it's authentic. None of the sugar-coated, cliche things people say to you when they're on the outside of cancer trying to make you feel better. She's honest that cancer sucks, but that God is still good. She's honest about her belief that God is in control even when we can't understand his ways and at the same time that cancer is painful and she gets lonely and sad sometimes. And that's okay.
There's a million reasons why I admire her and respect her, but the thing that is challenging and encouraging me is her relationship with her husband. Man they really love each other. And not love like just feeling affection for each other, but the important love. The doing love. Love as an action. I'm learning in my life that I can feel love for Daniel and that's great, but if that feeling never manifests itself in my behavior it doesn't really mean much. If I'm not treating him like he's important to me, making sacrifices where I need to, or growing as a teammate. Daniel is an awesome partner, but I'm embarrassed to say that I haven't been the most loving teammate I can be.
Libby and her husband love well. In the midst of cancer she continues to make him a priority never expecting him to be at her beck and call. Though when he does come home from work early and care for her in different ways, she accepts it gracefully and gratefully. And he writes her letters on her blog. He speaks of being humbled by her strength. And she's the first to say that they're not perfect. Her honesty about that is perhaps the most encouraging because it means you can fight with each other or not get along at all times, and STILL love each other well.
When I was reading months worth of entries in a single sitting I found myself so inspired that part of me was foolishly wishing for cancer. I envied their perspective and passion gained from this earth shattering event. But my family has been there before and then I remembered how I never want to go through that initial shock again. Then I felt guilty for forgetting how grateful I should be and how I've begun to take things for granted again and become consumed by pettiness. It shouldn't take something like cancer to make me grateful for my life, family, and my husband. I shouldn't have to get sick to realize how wonderful Daniel is and to start living in that reality. I want to stop taking him and his love for granted. Even though the stakes aren't as high as they would be in the face of cancer, I want to live like they are. I want to love like I have cancer. I want to love like Libby does.
You can follow her inspiring journey here.
Libby Ryder's story hits a little too close to home. She's in her mid 20's and she and her husband are "Young Life people". He's a area director in Virginia. They have a little daughter who is only a few months old. In July Libby was diagnosed with Lymphoma. Cancer always seems like a tragedy. No one ever deserves it, but it seems more cruel in certain stories like a brain tumor in a three year old or lymphoma in a 26 year old new mom. Libby's story is a compelling read and she never comes across as a victim despite the cruelty of her situation. I love reading because home-girl is honest, like really honest. Her faith is evident in each entry and it's authentic. None of the sugar-coated, cliche things people say to you when they're on the outside of cancer trying to make you feel better. She's honest that cancer sucks, but that God is still good. She's honest about her belief that God is in control even when we can't understand his ways and at the same time that cancer is painful and she gets lonely and sad sometimes. And that's okay.
There's a million reasons why I admire her and respect her, but the thing that is challenging and encouraging me is her relationship with her husband. Man they really love each other. And not love like just feeling affection for each other, but the important love. The doing love. Love as an action. I'm learning in my life that I can feel love for Daniel and that's great, but if that feeling never manifests itself in my behavior it doesn't really mean much. If I'm not treating him like he's important to me, making sacrifices where I need to, or growing as a teammate. Daniel is an awesome partner, but I'm embarrassed to say that I haven't been the most loving teammate I can be.
Libby and her husband love well. In the midst of cancer she continues to make him a priority never expecting him to be at her beck and call. Though when he does come home from work early and care for her in different ways, she accepts it gracefully and gratefully. And he writes her letters on her blog. He speaks of being humbled by her strength. And she's the first to say that they're not perfect. Her honesty about that is perhaps the most encouraging because it means you can fight with each other or not get along at all times, and STILL love each other well.
When I was reading months worth of entries in a single sitting I found myself so inspired that part of me was foolishly wishing for cancer. I envied their perspective and passion gained from this earth shattering event. But my family has been there before and then I remembered how I never want to go through that initial shock again. Then I felt guilty for forgetting how grateful I should be and how I've begun to take things for granted again and become consumed by pettiness. It shouldn't take something like cancer to make me grateful for my life, family, and my husband. I shouldn't have to get sick to realize how wonderful Daniel is and to start living in that reality. I want to stop taking him and his love for granted. Even though the stakes aren't as high as they would be in the face of cancer, I want to live like they are. I want to love like I have cancer. I want to love like Libby does.
You can follow her inspiring journey here.
Monday, May 24
The Memory
I was in my sister's neighborhood tonight so I stopped by to say hello to my nieces. Their house is right across the street from the neighborhood pool and as I pulled in I was hit with a vivid memory. Last summer all four Hogan siblings were in town (myself, two older sisters, and younger brother) and hanging out at that pool along with my mom and niece Hannah. Hannah was being a typical three year old goofing around in the water, more interested in messing with the fountains than doing any actual swimming. It was a special afternoon since everyone was in town together, but it was also very normal. It was also pre-cancer, pre-brain tumor, pre-having-your-world-shaken-to-its-core. It was this memory of Hannah playing at the pool that played over and over in my head during our first days in the hospital. We were just waiting for the results of each test and scan. Waiting to hear from each team of doctors after they had consulted with my sister and brother in law. Waiting to see what was to come for Hannah, our family, and our sense of any normalcy that could remain in the face of childhood cancer. It was this memory of the summer just a few short months before she got sick that I kept going back to. As I've written before, it was this afternoon that I wanted to rewind back to. I wanted our lives back before cancer. There was no going back.
I'm not sure why my panic and grief manifested itself in this memory. I have replayed the scenes from that afternoon and Hannah's innocence over and over again, so it was bizarre to see the pool just a few days from reopening for the season. Could it really be almost a year later already? Could it be that we survived the horrific fall and numbing winter? Could it be that we get to keep our Hannah and experience another summer like last year's?
Somehow life goes on. It is different, for better or worse. We have adjusted to our new normal, a normal where cancer is not so shocking anymore. But still a normal where we can enjoy afternoons at the pool surrounded by family and joy and laughter and all things simple and good. I welcome the opening of this tiny little pool and all that it symbolizes for our tiny little family: life, survival, resilience, strength in brokenness, honesty, gratitude, and our Hannah.
I'm not sure why my panic and grief manifested itself in this memory. I have replayed the scenes from that afternoon and Hannah's innocence over and over again, so it was bizarre to see the pool just a few days from reopening for the season. Could it really be almost a year later already? Could it be that we survived the horrific fall and numbing winter? Could it be that we get to keep our Hannah and experience another summer like last year's?
Somehow life goes on. It is different, for better or worse. We have adjusted to our new normal, a normal where cancer is not so shocking anymore. But still a normal where we can enjoy afternoons at the pool surrounded by family and joy and laughter and all things simple and good. I welcome the opening of this tiny little pool and all that it symbolizes for our tiny little family: life, survival, resilience, strength in brokenness, honesty, gratitude, and our Hannah.
Monday, May 3
Googling Cancer
"Where your treasure is, there your heart is also." We can look to our checkbooks to see what's important in our lives. Where we spend our money can be indicative of what we value. We can see this by examining what and whom we invest in. I think the same idea can be applied to our search history. What and whom we google can be indicative of what is happening in our lives.
Google is such a dominant presence that we rarely even say "search" anymore, rather we use google as a verb. Grandmas say google. People foreign to the world of computers may not know what a search engine is but they somehow know what googling something means. Google is cute, colorful, quirky, clever. It is also the gateway to a plethora of knowledge and so though it may be cute and clever, when searching for information on tragic circumstances, it creates odd pairings such as "googling cancer".
What did you google today? I googled "tissue paper flowers" and "tissue paper pom pom tutorial". You know what my friend's mom googled last week? You got it! Cancer. We talked on the phone tonight and I sadly welcomed her to the "F*#@%ing Cancer Club". This is one of the worst clubs to belong to though its members are some of the most wonderful people.What other club exists that has such beautiful people making up its ranks but such sucky benefits? No one wants to be invited into this club. We despise our membership and reluctantly wear our ID badges reminding us of our forced participation in all the club's crummy activities. We seriously need a new social director because our calendar of extracurricular activities is comprised of chemo, radiation, surgery, and grief counseling. How come I can't find the times and locations for shuffleboard, arts & crafts, and bingo?
How come I have to welcome someone else into our ranks? Why does somebody else, another family full of good, nice, well meaning people, have to receive the news that they're the newest members? Why is there someone else out there now just trying to rewind back to the days before the diagnosis? Back when things were normal, even boring at times. Oh God I pray for the boring times to return, where life and death and hair loss and surgery aren't everyday topics of conversation. I pray for google searches of stupid, petty, and boring things. I never asked to be invited into this club, but me and my family are all accounted for at each membership meeting. I love the people here though. This group is strong and humble. War weary, but still standing. And you know what? Though reluctant WE wear our ID badges, they don't wear us. And you know what else? After the shock subsided and we stopped telling ourselves that, "No. Cancer isn't something that happens to people like us", we kept living. We are different and living in a new normal, but still very much living. And yes our google searches returned to the mundane. "Brain tumor" and "St. Judes" have been replaced by "tissue paper flowers" and other dumb, everyday-ness. There is still life in the midst of cancer. Our lives are composed of the whole range of experience: the good, the bad, the boring and the tragic. Just check my search history. You'll see; it's all there.
Google is such a dominant presence that we rarely even say "search" anymore, rather we use google as a verb. Grandmas say google. People foreign to the world of computers may not know what a search engine is but they somehow know what googling something means. Google is cute, colorful, quirky, clever. It is also the gateway to a plethora of knowledge and so though it may be cute and clever, when searching for information on tragic circumstances, it creates odd pairings such as "googling cancer".
What did you google today? I googled "tissue paper flowers" and "tissue paper pom pom tutorial". You know what my friend's mom googled last week? You got it! Cancer. We talked on the phone tonight and I sadly welcomed her to the "F*#@%ing Cancer Club". This is one of the worst clubs to belong to though its members are some of the most wonderful people.What other club exists that has such beautiful people making up its ranks but such sucky benefits? No one wants to be invited into this club. We despise our membership and reluctantly wear our ID badges reminding us of our forced participation in all the club's crummy activities. We seriously need a new social director because our calendar of extracurricular activities is comprised of chemo, radiation, surgery, and grief counseling. How come I can't find the times and locations for shuffleboard, arts & crafts, and bingo?
How come I have to welcome someone else into our ranks? Why does somebody else, another family full of good, nice, well meaning people, have to receive the news that they're the newest members? Why is there someone else out there now just trying to rewind back to the days before the diagnosis? Back when things were normal, even boring at times. Oh God I pray for the boring times to return, where life and death and hair loss and surgery aren't everyday topics of conversation. I pray for google searches of stupid, petty, and boring things. I never asked to be invited into this club, but me and my family are all accounted for at each membership meeting. I love the people here though. This group is strong and humble. War weary, but still standing. And you know what? Though reluctant WE wear our ID badges, they don't wear us. And you know what else? After the shock subsided and we stopped telling ourselves that, "No. Cancer isn't something that happens to people like us", we kept living. We are different and living in a new normal, but still very much living. And yes our google searches returned to the mundane. "Brain tumor" and "St. Judes" have been replaced by "tissue paper flowers" and other dumb, everyday-ness. There is still life in the midst of cancer. Our lives are composed of the whole range of experience: the good, the bad, the boring and the tragic. Just check my search history. You'll see; it's all there.
Sunday, March 7
Next Blog
For some the "Next Blog" link in the toolbar at the top of each blogger site is meaningless and thus neglected, but for others like me it has led to evenings engrossed in the lives and stories of complete strangers. How many of you, like me, cannot resist that link? When I began my own blog I was still pretty ignorant to the blogosphere, but now have uncovered a subculture of online purging where people will pour out their emotions, joys, tragedies, and even their secrets. It is a phenomenon I am fascinated by and am sure if there are not books about this online therapy already on the shelves, then there soon will be.
When looking for domain names for this blog I tried out a few to see if they were already taken. One idea was "A Year in the Life". This site is already preoccupied by a Jenifer who posted only once back in 2003. Ironically she wrote, "Jenifer made a blog. If she built it, will they come?" She did and they didn't. (What a waste of a great domain name for a failed blog.) Another idea for a title I had was "The Lazarus Project" identifying with Jesus' friend Lazarus whom Jesus raises from the dead. This is one of my favorite Bible passages where after Lazarus exits the tomb, Jesus orders that Lazarus' grave clothes be removed. I love the picture of him stripping off the burial linens representing death and putting on new clothes as he enters back into life. A powerful picture for me as I strive to shake off all those burdens that keep me walking around half alive. This domain was also taken already as well. This person posted only twice back in 2005. What happened to her? She talks about coming back to life and experiencing a reawakening. Where is she now? Still feeling renewed, alive...or stuck back into those dark places of death?
These two blogs were my first small glimpses into the stories floating around the online universe. I'm not sure if the next blog link sends you to blogs with similar subject manner as your own by picking up key words from your posts. I'm assuming this is the case sometimes seeing as how when I was writing frequently about Hannah's cancer, the link sent me to multiple sites of families struggling with cancer as well. One night the link sent me to a site where the last post was from a wife expressing her gratitude to everyone who made it to her husband's visitation. My voyeuristic urges plunged me into the story of a school teacher, coach, and husband suffering from and subsequently dying from cancer. It was also a story of a husband and wife loving one another quietly, simply, and patiently in the anticipation of death and separation from each another. I read backwards chronologically, like reading the last page of a novel before beginning the actual story. We live our own stories without the benefit of already knowing how they end. We must sit back and watch them unfold in front of us. Enduring the unknown and mystery of what the future holds can be excruciating. I cannot understand how this couple must have felt living through their story as it occurred. I began with his death, their journey began with mere symptoms of a great disease. The voice I began with was hers, the wife's. As I continued my reading, I read posts written by him, the husband, back when he was strong enough to write, to type, to think. She had taken over for him when the sickness began to overtake him. But his voice was there in the beginning, reporting of treatments, blood counts, procedures. I had already read the posts where they had come to accept their course, his end. But there were posts written earlier that were still full of questions, confusion, the possibility of healing...and hope. I watched his demise in reverse. While in reality he became sicker, as I read backwards, his faculties returned along with his strength and resolve.
The blog was created as an information station for family and friends to track his illness as well as offer support. From what I gathered by reading the numerous comments left on each post, this man and his wife were well loved, not only by family, but by friends and students and former students. He impacted the lives of the kids he worked with both in the classroom as well as on the court as their coach. And now in his time of greatest need, they were there. "You can do it coach!" "We love you coach!" "You were my favorite teacher Mr. Z."
It was (is, I have to remember this was a real person, a true story. As far removed as you can become by invading someone's life online, one must remember that it still happened. He existed. He had a family, a wife, kids, friends. He was real and his story is real.)...it is a heart wrenching story, but I walked away from the site feeling privileged to have encountered a beautiful life. What I read was a collection of posts, some only a sentence or two with others filling my entire screen at once, but what I saw was a life well lived. I did not know him, or her, but I know about them. I know that he loved others and was loved in return. I know that she loved him and loved him passionately especially during hospice while waiting patiently, never rushing him, at the end. I know that he died with dignity and peace. I know that his absence is marked with sadness and loss.
I always feel guilty reading things I know weren't intended for my eyes. But maybe I shouldn't in some cases. I didn't intrude or disrespect this couple, this family, this community, but rather embraced their story with humility gleaning from them all that I could. Judging from Mr. Z's impact on those in his life, I think he would be proud but humbled to know that his life well lived impacted yet another person...stranger or not.
So beware of the next blog button. Not only may you find yourself in the middle of a powerful story being told by a fellow sojourner, but someone else may walk into your story. I'd love your thoughts on this post.
When looking for domain names for this blog I tried out a few to see if they were already taken. One idea was "A Year in the Life". This site is already preoccupied by a Jenifer who posted only once back in 2003. Ironically she wrote, "Jenifer made a blog. If she built it, will they come?" She did and they didn't. (What a waste of a great domain name for a failed blog.) Another idea for a title I had was "The Lazarus Project" identifying with Jesus' friend Lazarus whom Jesus raises from the dead. This is one of my favorite Bible passages where after Lazarus exits the tomb, Jesus orders that Lazarus' grave clothes be removed. I love the picture of him stripping off the burial linens representing death and putting on new clothes as he enters back into life. A powerful picture for me as I strive to shake off all those burdens that keep me walking around half alive. This domain was also taken already as well. This person posted only twice back in 2005. What happened to her? She talks about coming back to life and experiencing a reawakening. Where is she now? Still feeling renewed, alive...or stuck back into those dark places of death?
These two blogs were my first small glimpses into the stories floating around the online universe. I'm not sure if the next blog link sends you to blogs with similar subject manner as your own by picking up key words from your posts. I'm assuming this is the case sometimes seeing as how when I was writing frequently about Hannah's cancer, the link sent me to multiple sites of families struggling with cancer as well. One night the link sent me to a site where the last post was from a wife expressing her gratitude to everyone who made it to her husband's visitation. My voyeuristic urges plunged me into the story of a school teacher, coach, and husband suffering from and subsequently dying from cancer. It was also a story of a husband and wife loving one another quietly, simply, and patiently in the anticipation of death and separation from each another. I read backwards chronologically, like reading the last page of a novel before beginning the actual story. We live our own stories without the benefit of already knowing how they end. We must sit back and watch them unfold in front of us. Enduring the unknown and mystery of what the future holds can be excruciating. I cannot understand how this couple must have felt living through their story as it occurred. I began with his death, their journey began with mere symptoms of a great disease. The voice I began with was hers, the wife's. As I continued my reading, I read posts written by him, the husband, back when he was strong enough to write, to type, to think. She had taken over for him when the sickness began to overtake him. But his voice was there in the beginning, reporting of treatments, blood counts, procedures. I had already read the posts where they had come to accept their course, his end. But there were posts written earlier that were still full of questions, confusion, the possibility of healing...and hope. I watched his demise in reverse. While in reality he became sicker, as I read backwards, his faculties returned along with his strength and resolve.
The blog was created as an information station for family and friends to track his illness as well as offer support. From what I gathered by reading the numerous comments left on each post, this man and his wife were well loved, not only by family, but by friends and students and former students. He impacted the lives of the kids he worked with both in the classroom as well as on the court as their coach. And now in his time of greatest need, they were there. "You can do it coach!" "We love you coach!" "You were my favorite teacher Mr. Z."
It was (is, I have to remember this was a real person, a true story. As far removed as you can become by invading someone's life online, one must remember that it still happened. He existed. He had a family, a wife, kids, friends. He was real and his story is real.)...it is a heart wrenching story, but I walked away from the site feeling privileged to have encountered a beautiful life. What I read was a collection of posts, some only a sentence or two with others filling my entire screen at once, but what I saw was a life well lived. I did not know him, or her, but I know about them. I know that he loved others and was loved in return. I know that she loved him and loved him passionately especially during hospice while waiting patiently, never rushing him, at the end. I know that he died with dignity and peace. I know that his absence is marked with sadness and loss.
I always feel guilty reading things I know weren't intended for my eyes. But maybe I shouldn't in some cases. I didn't intrude or disrespect this couple, this family, this community, but rather embraced their story with humility gleaning from them all that I could. Judging from Mr. Z's impact on those in his life, I think he would be proud but humbled to know that his life well lived impacted yet another person...stranger or not.
So beware of the next blog button. Not only may you find yourself in the middle of a powerful story being told by a fellow sojourner, but someone else may walk into your story. I'd love your thoughts on this post.
Saturday, January 30
C is for Cancer
Carina and Hannah have been lucky enough to stay at Christopher's Haven while in Boston. An incredible man and cancer survivor himself created Christopher's Haven to provide apartments in a high rise across the street from the hospital for families to stay in while receiving proton therapy. Our second night in Boston I laid awake on the pull out sofa bed. I couldn't stop thinking about all the other families that had literally slept where I was sleeping. What happened to them? Where were they now? How was their kid doing? How did they do it? How are we going to do it?
Hannah is oh so close to being finished with radiation. They have already booked their flight home for next Wednesday. This could be the end of treatment completely. It is for right now anyway and hopefully forever. I'm not brave enough to even begin discussing things going back to normal or saying she is cancer free. All I'll share is that since we've been in game mode since October I'm afraid to stop bracing for impact. What if I let my guard down and something happens? I can't get rocked like that again. But at the same time we all have to start going back to living again. These are questions and fears for the therapist...and God. I have a feeling there may not be answers though. For now I can celebrate Hannah and how far she's come and how wonderful she is doing. I will be grateful for today.
T.G.I.T.F (Thank God it's Toy Friday!)
Check out this spread for the young patients to choose from.
Hannah choosing a toy for baby Callie. There's a toy room for siblings too!
The sewing angel Karen helping Hannah make a pillowcase. Her Boston accent added to her heavenliness.
This is the bell patients ring after their treatment is complete. Carina says she cries every time she is present for a ringing. Next Wednesday Hannah will get to ring the bell after 32 treatments and Carina and Jason will cry.
A Great Big PS!- (added Feb 4th) Here's the picture of Hannah ringing the bell and showing her countdown chart completed!
Hannah is oh so close to being finished with radiation. They have already booked their flight home for next Wednesday. This could be the end of treatment completely. It is for right now anyway and hopefully forever. I'm not brave enough to even begin discussing things going back to normal or saying she is cancer free. All I'll share is that since we've been in game mode since October I'm afraid to stop bracing for impact. What if I let my guard down and something happens? I can't get rocked like that again. But at the same time we all have to start going back to living again. These are questions and fears for the therapist...and God. I have a feeling there may not be answers though. For now I can celebrate Hannah and how far she's come and how wonderful she is doing. I will be grateful for today.
T.G.I.T.F (Thank God it's Toy Friday!)Check out this spread for the young patients to choose from.
Hannah choosing a toy for baby Callie. There's a toy room for siblings too!
The sewing angel Karen helping Hannah make a pillowcase. Her Boston accent added to her heavenliness.
This is the bell patients ring after their treatment is complete. Carina says she cries every time she is present for a ringing. Next Wednesday Hannah will get to ring the bell after 32 treatments and Carina and Jason will cry.
A Great Big PS!- (added Feb 4th) Here's the picture of Hannah ringing the bell and showing her countdown chart completed!
Saturday, January 9
Into the Confessional
Last night I went to dinner with a friend. Though we’ve been acquainted for a while, this was the first time the two of us hung out alone. I was looking forward to a casual dinner and expected casual conversation. I had no idea the two of us would still be talking long past our food was finished and that our conversation would turn the direction it had.
A month or so ago I saw Rob Bell speak at his Drops Like Stars tour, which deals with the topic of suffering. At no point did he attempt to explain the “why” of tragedy with a trite explanation of why bad things happen to good people. Sometimes people just want their heartbreak acknowledged and the opportunity to grieve in the midst of others who are hurting as well. The news of my niece’s brain cancer was still fresh so the timing of his message was truly divine. At one point in the evening he asked members of the audience to stand if they had a relative impacted by cancer. I stood…so did a hundred others. I attended the show alone, but as I stood amongst this multitude of strangers, I instantly felt part of something much bigger. It was a “standing on Holy Ground” moment. The point Rob was making was how suffering bonds us. He is right. For the first time since Hannah’s diagnosis, I felt like we weren’t the only family to experience cancer. I can’t quote Rob exactly but he made a comment that when someone just utters the word cancer it’s like the molecules in the room start to change. I never asked for membership into this club, but I can’t begin to articulate the profound comradery I felt that night with the fellow war weary.
My dinner date lost her mom to cancer just a few years ago. Cancer barely came up in our conversation. Suffering is universal. The simple knowledge of our shared pain was enough. Rob said suffering makes you honest. Last night we were honest. Before I knew it we were sharing secrets and swapping war stories. I couldn’t believe the skeletons that were coming out of my closet. It was like therapy…with chopsticks and soy sauce. Honesty disarms people. For every failing I revealed she reciprocated with a fear of her own. This wasn’t just therapy, this was confession. It’s a powerful experience to expose your wrongs and the wrongs committed against you to another person only to have them met with acceptance instead of judgment, grace rather than criticism, and compassion in the place of indifference. The evening was a tangible example of the truth in James 5:16, “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed”. I left the restaurant feeling like we had been through battle together and like we had treated each others' wounds as well. Who knew shrimp tempura could be a spiritual experience?
Thursday, January 7
The Worst Day of My Life
Oh boy. This is the entry I’ve been dreading having to write. But it has so much to do with why I am taking on this year long project in the first place that I have to talk about it. Everyone close to me already knows that my 3-year-old niece Hannah has, had, is being treated for, however you want to say it…cancer. So many of those words should never be put into a sentence together: 3 year old, cancer, Hannah…please not Hannah. Each member of my family has a different story for where they were when they first found out. It’s like how everyone in my parents’ generation remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot or how we all remember the first news of September 11th. Those events certainly changed the course of history, but a personal tragedy has the power to change the course of your own life. I would say for each member of my family Hannah’s brain tumor has completely altered our lives forever.
My sister Carina will begin telling you the story beginning on October 2nd, the night Hannah was rushed to the ER, and even recall days before when she began showing mysterious symptoms. But for me it was the morning of October 3rd. I woke up to an unknown caller at 6am so I ignored the call. When I woke up at 9am I listened to the voicemail of Carina calling from the hospital. It’s late night calls and early morning voicemails that always indicate trouble. No one calls with inconsequentials at these hours. No, these calls carry with them the most serious of consequences. After failing to reach my sister I called my mom who proceeded to calmly administer the news. This woman has been through the fire (her own cancer included) enough times to deliver life-altering news in a steady and even tone. “Hannah’s in the hospital. They found a mass on her brain. She’s having an MRI as we speak.” After receiving instructions about where to go and how to reach my sister, I hung up the phone and leaned over to tell Daniel, I didn’t know how to begin my next sentence for I was now the one delivering this nightmare to a new victim. My life was changed and now his was going to change as well. Before I could find the words, a word, anything to utter aloud, the weight of it all hit me and I simply cried. (This is really hard to write even now as just remembering that morning is like reopening up the wound and getting sick to my stomach all over again.) Daniel asked what I wanted to do and I said I didn’t know. I just wanted to cry and grieve for a minute before I attempted to think beyond what I had just learned. He went downstairs to call Jason, our brother in law, and returned to the bedroom more wrecked than I was. He had happened to catch Jason in the midst of a momentary breakdown and the two men wept together over the phone for a brief few minutes.
Next thing I knew we were in the waiting room at Children’s Mercy waiting for Hannah to emerge from the MRI. We sat there numb listening to Carina retell the events of the last 12 hours over and over as each new member of the family arrived. The next handful of days were spent at the hospital crammed into Hannah’s tiny room watching cartoons and faking smiles through our “game faces”. We didn’t want to scare or alarm her, so all grieving was reserved for private moments caught alone. For me it was the half hour drive back and forth from the hospital where I did most of my weeping. My prayers took an interesting tone during these drives. They were not serene petitions like when praying for the sick members of other people’s families, “Lord, please comfort them and bring peace and healing and whatever they need during this time.” When it was my own family I was praying for, when I could see the face of the sick 3-year-old, when I could hear her laugh, and when I knew the helplessness of her parents, my prayers were much darker. They didn’t really consist of words but usually all I could do was cry and scream at the top of my lungs in a dark car. I heard myself a few times yell the words “why” but more often I heard myself insisting times insisting “no”. If I could somehow yell loud enough and insist earnestly enough, maybe God would take it all back. Despite all my “fist-shaking”, he didn’t.
My sister Amy said she wished we could just fast forward to six months from now and see how everything would turn out. It was this statement that helped me to articulate my opposite thinking. During those first few days I kept picturing Hannah playing at her neighborhood pool. It was a memory from a summer afternoon just 2 months before. She had been wearing her swimsuit and life jacket and instead of actually swimming she was playing with the little fountains that sprayed in the kiddie pool. It was this reoccurring memory that triggered the tears most for me. I had been rewinding to memories before news of the brain tumor. I kept wanting to go back while Amy was wanting to see ahead. I told her, “You want a fast forward button and I want a rewind button.” Over the course of that first week, the two of us threw out our fast forward and rewind buttons and landed on a phrase and idea that I continue to cling to now, “a new normal”. We cannot go back and we cannot foresee the future. Things are forever changed from here on out. We cannot reclaim naivety or innocence lost. Instead, if we are to survive, we have to accept reality and begin living new, different lives even if we loathe the changes that have occurred.
Though it’s hard to get started on this, I could probably write for days. And over the course of this year, I will surely write about Hannah frequently. I did mention that she and this experience were pivotal in taking on this year of living imperfectly. With anxiety and depression I have wasted so many days stuck in bed, too many days. It may sound cliché, but for anyone who has experienced something like this you know it to be true, I don’t deserve to waste any more days. Hannah is only 3 and she deserves so many more days than she’s gotten, so what gives me the right to throw away my days so carelessly? In addition to “The get out of bed everyday” title, another idea for the name of this project was “Not another day wasted”. That is a challenge to at least give each day a try. But I have more motivation to live life well when I’m viewing things from the lens of a new normal.
Hannah in July with new kid sister Callie.
Hannah's Caring Bridge Site
My sister Carina will begin telling you the story beginning on October 2nd, the night Hannah was rushed to the ER, and even recall days before when she began showing mysterious symptoms. But for me it was the morning of October 3rd. I woke up to an unknown caller at 6am so I ignored the call. When I woke up at 9am I listened to the voicemail of Carina calling from the hospital. It’s late night calls and early morning voicemails that always indicate trouble. No one calls with inconsequentials at these hours. No, these calls carry with them the most serious of consequences. After failing to reach my sister I called my mom who proceeded to calmly administer the news. This woman has been through the fire (her own cancer included) enough times to deliver life-altering news in a steady and even tone. “Hannah’s in the hospital. They found a mass on her brain. She’s having an MRI as we speak.” After receiving instructions about where to go and how to reach my sister, I hung up the phone and leaned over to tell Daniel, I didn’t know how to begin my next sentence for I was now the one delivering this nightmare to a new victim. My life was changed and now his was going to change as well. Before I could find the words, a word, anything to utter aloud, the weight of it all hit me and I simply cried. (This is really hard to write even now as just remembering that morning is like reopening up the wound and getting sick to my stomach all over again.) Daniel asked what I wanted to do and I said I didn’t know. I just wanted to cry and grieve for a minute before I attempted to think beyond what I had just learned. He went downstairs to call Jason, our brother in law, and returned to the bedroom more wrecked than I was. He had happened to catch Jason in the midst of a momentary breakdown and the two men wept together over the phone for a brief few minutes.
Next thing I knew we were in the waiting room at Children’s Mercy waiting for Hannah to emerge from the MRI. We sat there numb listening to Carina retell the events of the last 12 hours over and over as each new member of the family arrived. The next handful of days were spent at the hospital crammed into Hannah’s tiny room watching cartoons and faking smiles through our “game faces”. We didn’t want to scare or alarm her, so all grieving was reserved for private moments caught alone. For me it was the half hour drive back and forth from the hospital where I did most of my weeping. My prayers took an interesting tone during these drives. They were not serene petitions like when praying for the sick members of other people’s families, “Lord, please comfort them and bring peace and healing and whatever they need during this time.” When it was my own family I was praying for, when I could see the face of the sick 3-year-old, when I could hear her laugh, and when I knew the helplessness of her parents, my prayers were much darker. They didn’t really consist of words but usually all I could do was cry and scream at the top of my lungs in a dark car. I heard myself a few times yell the words “why” but more often I heard myself insisting times insisting “no”. If I could somehow yell loud enough and insist earnestly enough, maybe God would take it all back. Despite all my “fist-shaking”, he didn’t.
My sister Amy said she wished we could just fast forward to six months from now and see how everything would turn out. It was this statement that helped me to articulate my opposite thinking. During those first few days I kept picturing Hannah playing at her neighborhood pool. It was a memory from a summer afternoon just 2 months before. She had been wearing her swimsuit and life jacket and instead of actually swimming she was playing with the little fountains that sprayed in the kiddie pool. It was this reoccurring memory that triggered the tears most for me. I had been rewinding to memories before news of the brain tumor. I kept wanting to go back while Amy was wanting to see ahead. I told her, “You want a fast forward button and I want a rewind button.” Over the course of that first week, the two of us threw out our fast forward and rewind buttons and landed on a phrase and idea that I continue to cling to now, “a new normal”. We cannot go back and we cannot foresee the future. Things are forever changed from here on out. We cannot reclaim naivety or innocence lost. Instead, if we are to survive, we have to accept reality and begin living new, different lives even if we loathe the changes that have occurred.
Though it’s hard to get started on this, I could probably write for days. And over the course of this year, I will surely write about Hannah frequently. I did mention that she and this experience were pivotal in taking on this year of living imperfectly. With anxiety and depression I have wasted so many days stuck in bed, too many days. It may sound cliché, but for anyone who has experienced something like this you know it to be true, I don’t deserve to waste any more days. Hannah is only 3 and she deserves so many more days than she’s gotten, so what gives me the right to throw away my days so carelessly? In addition to “The get out of bed everyday” title, another idea for the name of this project was “Not another day wasted”. That is a challenge to at least give each day a try. But I have more motivation to live life well when I’m viewing things from the lens of a new normal.
Hannah in July with new kid sister Callie.
Hannah's Caring Bridge Site
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