One Year Later: I'll Take the Stairs

There are a few images from this last year that will stay with me for a lifetime.

Others, however, have been miraculously erased, never to be viewed again. I think it’s God’s way of helping us move on. He allows some of the memories, pictures, and feelings of pain to dissipate as we check off each day on the calendar. Others, He has us hold onto, to remember where we were and help us figure out where we’re going.

I can remember almost the exact concrete pavers we were standing on when we left the surgeon’s office after the biopsy, when we stopped, clung to each other, and sobbed.

I remember the heat I felt sitting on the couch, surrounded by family when, on speaker phone, the doctor confirmed our nightmares. I remember watching the boys walk down the stairs for the first time after that phone call, realizing I would never be the same mom again.

I remember sitting in the chemo treatment for the first time, crying, and having the most amazing nurse trying to hold back her tears, too.

I remember looking down at my body after the surgery for the first time, confident in knowing that I did what I had to do, but still feeling the awful emotions of regret, loss, and sadness.

I remember my last chemo treatment and the ringing of the symbolic bell. I remember an entire chemo room clapping and crying for me; me - a stranger to them all, rejoicing in the milestone along with us.

And that’s about all I really can vividly see in my mind’s eye. I have blocked out intermittent doctors’ appointments, the true feeling of nausea, the nights sleeping in a recliner, the metal taste in my mouth, and the exhaustion. I’ve even begun to forget what I looked like bald.

I am truly a different person than I was one year ago today. For some things I have more patience, for others, none. I have more empathy and sympathy. I want to do more things for others, and for myself. I want to work harder than I’ve ever had to work. I want to play harder than I’ve ever played. I don’t want to miss out on the little things, and I certainly want to be a part of the big ones. I want to smile and laugh more and cry less. I want to say yes to opportunities that may not come my way again. I want to try things I’ve never tried. I want to tell people how much I care about them. I want to repay all those that sacrificed for me.  I want to give back. I want to share my story, in hopes that it can help even just one person. I want to share my faith, in hopes that it can save even just one person.

I have a bucket list now. A real one. And I keep adding to it, because I’m going to be around for a long time.

There’s a winding set of stairs that lead to my oncologist’s office. In the center is a beautiful waterfall. But for so much of this last year, I had to take the elevator. I was either too tired, too sick, too nauseous, or too weak to even consider the stairs.  

Until now. I’m strong. Those stairs that were once impossible to climb, exhausting, daunting, and scary, are now just another piece of evidence to show how far I’ve come. They symbolize my strength, my growth, and my journey.

So, from here on out, I’ll take the stairs.

Thank you #4: Nathan

When a couple recites their wedding vows, they always imagine that the “bad times,” “sickness,” and “poorer” will happen to the other couples, not them. All too often, when those less than desirable times occur, the couple runs away from each other, not honoring the vows they made to each other and to God.

This last year was a true test. We experienced the bad, the poor, and the sick – all within a 24 hour period. One year ago today, I lay on a surgeon’s table while the doctor performed a biopsy. By the time we got home, a message awaited us that Nathan was let go from his job. The next day, the cancer results were confirmed. Bad. Poor. Sick. 

Instead of running away, Nathan ran toward me. I will never forget the look in his eyes when the doctor said “cancer.” I will never forget watching him punch a hole in our kitchen wall out of sheer angst. I will never forget the tears that he shed and how tightly he held me – together.

He stood by my side for every moment of this journey. He took me to every doctor’s appointment. He held my hand as the nurse inserted the chemo needles each and every time. He got me whatever food sounded good while I was sick and nauseous. He took care of the boys so I could rest. He helped shave my head when my hair started to fall out. He told me I was beautiful. After my surgery, when I felt like I had been chopped to bits, he helped feed me. When I was strong enough to take a shower in the hospital, he was the one to help me. I was so scared for him to see me all cut up, so I draped a towel over me. The towel fell, and I know that he saw my scarred body, but he never said a word because he knew I wanted to keep it a secret for just a little bit longer.  Once home, he helped me change the bandages over my drains. He helped me get dressed. He told me I was beautiful. 

He rejoiced with me when the doctors said that I was cancer free. 

This summer, we will be married for 11 years. We were supposed to take a vacation last summer to celebrate our 10 year wedding anniversary, but life got in the way. I pray that this summer we get the opportunity to spend just a few days together celebrating just how far we’ve come, preferably somewhere with a beach and a few margaritas. Just sayin’.

Our wedding song has always been important to me, and it proved even more so this year. It’s titled I Will Be Here by Steven Curtis Chapman. I close with the lyrics and a link to the song, and a heart full of gratitude to God for blessing me with Nathan. I couldn't have done this without him.

I Will Be Here Music Video

Tomorrow mornin'
If you wake up
And the sun
Does not appear
I, I will be here

If in the dark
We lose sight of love
Hold my hand
And have no fear
'Cause I, I will be here

I will be here
When you feel like bein' quiet
When you need
To speak your mind
I will listen

And I will be here
When the laughter turns to cryin'
Through the winnin', losin' and tryin'
We'll be together, 'cause I will be here

Tomorrow mornin'
If you wake up
And the future
Is unclear
I, I will be here

As sure as seasons
Are made for change
Our lifetimes
Are made for years
So I, I will be here

I will be here
And you can cry on my shoulder
When the mirror
Tells us we're older
I will hold you

And I will be here
To watch you grow in beauty
And tell you all the things
You are to me, I will be here

I will be true
To the promise I have made
To you and to the one
Who gave you to me
I, I will be here

And just as sure as seasons
Are made for change
Our lifetimes are made for years
So I, I will be here
We'll be together, I will be here

Thank you #3: Our Parents

Let me begin by saying that this particular blog post may be shorter than the rest because there are so many emotions tied to it that the tears may get the best of me. The length of this, by no means, has any correlation to our gratitude.

There are the proverbial “in-law” jokes that circulate, and I’m sure we all have some that we could add to the list. And then there are those horror stories that include mothers and fathers-in law and the fighting that ensues between families. However, in our family, we are truly blessed with in-laws who not only get along, but who care for and support each other. 

I’m not really sure how a parent handles their child getting sick. I mean, I get upset when one of my boys has an ear infection. I can’t imagine what I would do if any of them ever faced something truly serious.

So I’m not really sure how my parents handled watching their only child receive the diagnosis of “cancer.” 

There were the initial tears, sobs, questions, and frustrations. But as the days and weeks went by, new purposes were found. My mom was going through some health challenges of her own at the same time, so I know that she felt like she “wasn’t doing enough” to help. So she did what she could, which was cook and shop. And I don’t want that to sound trivial by any means. She cooked us numerous meals each week, helping to stock-pile our freezer. She would write down my dictated grocery list, and I know she would go armed with my stack of neatly (and only slightly obsessively) organized coupon stash. I could trust that she got me the best deals possible, honoring our budgetary constraints. She would often pick up a “few extra things” that maybe weren’t on the list as a treat for me or for the boys. I appreciated these gestures so much, and knowing that those were things I didn’t need to take care of took much stress away from me. She has recently started taking the boys’ laundry home each week, washing, drying, and folding it for me, just to save me some time. I think I’ll keep her!

Anyone who has ever spent five minutes with my dad knows that he is a comedian. He helped keep us sane over the months. There isn’t a nurse in Sarasota that hasn’t seen my dad blow up a latex glove in a hospital room. While I was in labor, and I mean active labor, he had the entire delivery room in stitches, and I was laughing so hard that the contraction monitor was almost off the charts. My dad is a rock, and he knows how to keep everyone calm, relaxed, and laughing, regardless of the situation. And at a time like this, that was what we all needed. Oh, and he comes over to fix things, too. Recently, some minor toy broke, and Aaron’s first response was, “Oh, that’s okay. Grandpa can fix it.” He has helped babysit the boys, and more so lately as Nathan and I have conflicting schedules.

I’m lucky to say that I have some pretty awesome in-laws, too. They were there the day that the doctor called with my diagnosis. I watched their faces fall when the news came over the speaker phone. They were going to go home that evening, but I knew that I was in no shape to function the next day. So, they drove home (45 minutes away), got their belongings, and drove immediately back, getting in sometime after midnight. They never thought twice about making the trip twice in one day. 

Nathan’s dad, Mike, immediately went into planning mode. I heard it in his voice as he asked the doctor very specific questions, making sure to get all the information “right” as he knew he’d be the one calling family and friends. And that’s what he did. His mom, “Debbie” went into what I like to call “work mode” – cleaning, feeding the boys, play time, bath times, laundry, etc. She helped us function this summer. When I was hospitalized for the infection, she lived at our house for the week, taking over all my regular responsibilities, and then some. Her being here allowed Nathan to be at the hospital with me. And then for my surgery, she once again moved in – this time for almost two weeks. She stayed longer because as soon as I got home, we quickly figured out that I was utterly useless and couldn’t move. For the two of them, I can’t thank them enough for all they did. 

Nathan and I (and the boys) are so blessed that we have two sets of parents that love, support, and encourage us. Without the four of them, I don’t know how we could have survived this last year. To our parents: We thank you.

Thank you #2: Kristen and Greg

My high school ex-boyfriend and his wife.

Yup. That’s who this blog is about. That’s normal, right?

Here’s a little background. Greg and I dated in high school. Then we broke up. A tale familiar to any high school couple. We’ve kept in touch through the years. We’ve stayed friends. He’s a pretty cool guy. I figured he’d marry a pretty awesome girl. I mean, come on, we dated, so clearly he has impeccable taste in women. Little did I know just how awesome Kristen would be. 

Kris and I became friends on Facebook a few years back. That’s the only communication she and I ever had with each other. We’d comment on each others' kids’ photos, our daily posts, and send the occasional message to see how the others' families were doing.

When the news spread about my diagnosis, Kris went into planning mode. I don’t know all the specific thoughts that went through their heads, but within a couple of weeks, Greg was on the phone with my parents, asking if it was okay that he and Kris spearhead a project that would help us through the cancer journey. They wanted to create an Amazon gift registry where people could purchase things that our family would need – diapers, wipes, formula, cleaning products, detergent, paper plates, and plastic cutlery. My parents were surprised and humbled by the offer.

Within a week, the UPS and FedEx boxes started coming. Our doorbell rang non-stop for months. I’m not exaggerating when I say that we sometimes saw the same delivery man three times a day. Our home was filled with donations. Some boxes were marked by the givers. Some were purposely kept anonymous. We had to use a spare bedroom to house all the boxes of diapers and wipes that were given. We are now at one year out, and I still have diapers left. We just, and I mean, JUST, ran out of formula. I will literally have Lysol wipes to last me a few years. 

Kris continued to send me envelopes of coupons, gift cards, and encouraging notes.  Then one day, a package arrived from her. Enclosed was a quilt that she had someone make for me. Its main color is purple, and there are inserts with people’s messages of hope, prayer, and Bible verses. She had cut all the strips of fabric, enclosed directions, sent the strips to people who had been a part of my journey, and included return envelopes for those people to mail them back to her. She then took that fabric and had a friend create the most beautiful quilt. As if that wasn’t enough, she had a Shutterfly photo book made with pictures of all the people – friends and strangers – who prayed us through this process so that I could finally put some faces with names. It is a gift like no other.

As it turns out, we were to be vacationing in the same town over Christmas. We adjusted our schedules so that we could meet each other for the first time and have the families spend a few days together. It was one of the best Christmases and vacations we’ve ever had. It’s not every day that you can “go on vacation” with your husband, your three kids, your ex-boyfriend, his wife, and their two kids. It may sound a bit Jerry-Springer-ish, but I tell you, I laughed more those few days than I had in months. Kris and I shopped in the little town and went to lunch where we talked, laughed, and cried for hours. It felt like we had been friends all of our lives. The two families went out to dinner, and when all the kids were asleep, we stayed up late into the night and shared stories. I couldn’t have asked for a better vacation, or for better friends.

Greg emails each week to check in and see how we’re all doing. Kris and I keep in touch weekly on Facebook and occasionally on the phone. It’s tough to carry on a phone conversation when there are a total of five children between the two of us, so the phone calls are few. Perhaps when the kids go to college, we can have an actual conversation on the phone. I know that we have forever friends in them, and that our families will grow up together.

What they did for us was not just thoughtful and a “nice gesture.” The registry they created saved us financially. What most people don’t know is that the day before my diagnosis, my husband was laid off from his job. There went a full-time salary and benefits. We were days away from the birth of our third baby, and since I couldn’t breast feed, formula was a necessity. And an expensive one. The donations that came in from the registry allowed us to use our money for medical expenses, food, and the “regular bills.” There’s no way we could have done it without them.

So, to Kris and Greg – thank you for all that you did. We look forward to many more, healthy, years together. When’s our next vacation?