Life!

I don’t know about your life, but mine gets more unpredictable as I get older. It must be part of some cosmic plan, life teaching us to let go of this demand or that attachment as we prepare to leave this earth. Not that I’m ready to leave this earth, but I’m more aware of how little it takes to make me content these days. It is quite a grace, a gift from God to be able to flow with life in the midst of unpredictability.

So much has happened since blogging last month! First, I lost my dog, Hutch – rescued from a rabbit hutch at 6months and afraid to walk on solid ground, he was my top working farm dog- an Australian Cattle Dog, and my personal service dog (he alerted me to blood sugar drops, and found my shoes, keys, when I lost them). During my period of grief over Hutch, my mother became unresponsive and seemed near death. She recovered, thank God. Last weekend, I traveled south with my daughters as navigators for a much longed for reconnection with old friends and their kids, both animal and human. How wonderful to share hugs and laughter, the smell of horses, mountains, oatmeal pie and baking chicken. I petted old dogs and new pups, saw tulips in bloom, red bud trees opening, relished the sound of voices: talking, laughing, singing with guitar, even loved the noise and melodies from violins the kids are learning to play. I enjoyed watching the kids exploding from their car screaming the delights of being in the country. And the last and most joyful event: my PET and CT scans from last week showed no cancer!

In the last few weeks, I found the space I needed to pull away from being a cancer patient. It took some effort not to lose my identity to cancer. Cancer tends to be all consuming. I experienced some very lonely moments, not only from the shock of being dropped into a whole new ‘cancer world’, from isolation during low cell counts, from having less energy to run errands or socialize, but also from doing the inner work it takes to be open and vulnerable in spirit, in writing, in processing the changes illness brings. No one can walk the illness journey for you; family and friends can walk with you, but if you are open and wanting healing on all levels, illness takes you to some bleak, lonely places, even if you are a person of deep faith, trust in God, Love, or the universe. That said, I don’t believe I’m a special person; I truly believe every one has the ability to be open, vulnerable, and teachable when difficulties come. Knowing how difficult the journey is, I have compassion and respect for those who choose a different response.

I’m grateful I never fully felt like a cancer victim, nor do I feel like a cancer survivor now that my scans said I’m cancer free. Mostly, I feel I’m the same person, just with a heightened sense of clarity, of calling, and more appreciation and awareness of my miraculous body that works so hard to keep me healthy and is the perfect home for my soul. I also have a more profound awareness of love and gratitude for the gift of life.

I’ll end with a short story honoring the life of my faithful canine companion:

Hutch learning to work steers in feed lot - Oct 2001
First time I went in the steer pen with Hutch we moved along the perimeter of the pen as my trainer instructed, and the steers did move away from us. I wasn’t sure if I was handling a dog or a manure scoop, as Hutch ate mouthfuls of manure to keep from excited barking and to keep his teeth occupied when he really wanted to bite some cattle heels.

When Jay found out I went in the pen by myself, he was not happy! He told me about the time his mom helped him sort steers and an ornery one came after her. She scrambled up the wall to get away from the charging steer, but the crazy beast climbed up and over, right after her. The steer crossed the road and ran, snorting and kicking, down the field. Jay got his dad, and they deliberately chased the crazed steer around the field until he was exhausted, then they got two tractors and surrounded him. They drove him back to the barn, keeping him between the two tractors. Jay never told me where his mom hid from the steer when he first jumped the fence.

His story put the ‘fear of steer’ back in me. I shakily decided to get right back in there before I drowned in fear. Hutch and I did okay the second time too, not really confident yet, but we quietly moved all the sleeping steers from the barn out into the barn yard. Then we moved them all back into the barn. Kim saw us and told Jay how calmly we worked. Now, Jay wants us to help him sort and load steers this week. Talk about a change of tune!
~~~~

This was one of the good stories….there’s plenty of hilarious, awful stories of Hutch being as bullheaded as the cattle he worked, being a set of teeth on legs. He taught me so much about conquering my fears, and about living life to the fullest. He was one great dog!

Joyfully,
Sharon

Full

I am so full, God.

Full, like hands carrying elusive water,
cupping, holding, tickling
wetness, leaking through fingers.

Full, like an expanding balloon,
stretched taunt, holding…
holding, yet longing for explosion.

Full, like a sky filled with stars,
crystal glitter against lush darkness,
seeing can’t take it all in.

Full of depth, emotion, wonder,
embracing, resisting, inviting,
a soul longing for full expression.

I am so full, God.


~~
I'm ready for chemo tomorrow. Always a thread of fear exists that the day for chemo will come and my body and mind will not be ready. There is always a brief moment of panic at the start of the good days, will I get the house tidied and cleaned, the soups made and frozen, the dogs walked enough? Will I have time for laughter and fun? Then I settle in, let go, lean into trust. The good days are as full and rich as the not-so-good days. Love and trust blossom both times. I thank my body and soul for doing all this healing work. I thank the nurses and doctors, my family, my friends for also helping me heal. Mostly I thank God for my life, what is and what remains.

I’m grateful to be alive. The wind rips the rugs into my face as I struggle pinning them to the line, knocking my glasses off my face. Laughing, I delight in the power of the wind! The sun shines amazingly brilliant. I want to feel the intensity of the sun! My chia tea smells exotic. I brew it darker just to experience the aroma. I pet our old dachshund, Annie, and send loving-kindness to her through my fingers. I marvel at her soft coat, her marble eyes shining even through cataracts. I lay on the floor arms spread out; I can’t do this in the muddy grass yet, but I still feel the deep, wide earth awakening into spring. I want to be connected to the earth. I cherish the earth, and everything in it. I cherish my life. I am so full. Full of gratitude and of wanting more too. I want God more; I want more grace, more wisdom, more love and loving, more living fully.

I am ready for chemotherapy tomorrow. I’m taking Sophia with me, the mystery bear, Bob’s gift to me. I named her Sophia, God’s name for wisdom. I took off the hospital gown Sophia arrived wearing, and placed an earth stone necklace around her neck. I pinned an angel pin on her fur. The pin is another gift, from Jeanette, given so long ago she probably doesn’t remember. Sophia will hang on the IV pole to remind me of the earth I love, the provision of God, and that R-CHOP is my partner in healing. I go to chemo tomorrow, ready to thank Dr DeGreen, the delightful staff, all the wonderful nurses in the Gama Lab and in the Chemo room at the Lancaster Cancer Center for helping me heal.

I intend to take a break from blogging for awhile. I’m not sure how long, but I desire to be outdoors as much as possible to be more intentional about exercising, to boost my morale and aid in my healing. During my break from blogging, please feel free to call, email, and/or ask to stop in for a visit. In my experience, chemotherapy is isolating and lonely, surprising since I have always liked solitude and quiet.

Be well, and hug someone for me today! (even a tree :) Live fully alive!
Joyfully,
Sharon

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?" Mary Oliver

“God is voluptuous and delicious.” Meister Eckhart

God's gifts often come in strange packages

I love gifts. The earth is an incredible gift. I especially love birds, from colorful parrots to starlings fighting over suet. Yesterday, I enjoyed seeing ribbons of snow geese swirling and curling against the blue sky above our corn field, thousands of black-tipped white bodies moving with one mind. While it’s harder for me to find the gift in being stuck indoors, I can find treasures there also: one beautiful white flower bud rising above the foliage of my peace plant, the delighful taste of fennel in my veggie juice, two cactus blossoms, the photos of children and dogs on my walls, the fragrance of toast, Jay frying eggs or stirring soup, Rosey mopping my floor, colorful lint in my dryer, love shining in the eyes of those who take me to chemo, or agree to do something fun with me when I ask.

When I was down last week, I slipped into thinking chemo and side effects, and my reacting body was 'the enemy'. Now that I'm back to my normal self and feel positive again, I want to refocus my belief that chemo is healing and side effects are a sign something positive is happening. I want to keep loving myself, body and soul.

God’s gifts often come in strange packages. My experiences show me I am not really in control of the outcome of my life, of my illness, of even the chemo. It took much growing for me to see this truth as a gift. And, it will be a gift I will need to receive and accept many times as I continue this journey on earth. This gift liberates me to focus on what I can control: my attitude, what I give to my life and how I care for my body.

However, accepting this particular gift requires letting go of thinking cancer or illness and depression, or even depth of emotion is a failure. It has taken me a very long time to understand this, and even so, I still sometimes blame myself, think I’m doing something wrong or not trying hard enough. Each set back brings the temptation to wonder if I’ve skipped too many days of juicing, am not praying adequately, not thinking enough positive thoughts or shouldn't have eaten that cookie.

It is a special person who can offer hope to me when when I suffer rather than add to my sense of failure. Hope is vital when a sense of failure comes so easily. Life’s difficult times do offer teachable moments and often I discover a better way of living, or thinking, or being when I’m open to changing, one small reachable goal at a time. I can pray for a miracle, but I can’t make one happen. I am not a failure, nor am I doing anything wrong when miracles don't happen. I can ask for God's grace and seek peace of mind. I can choose to life my life fully, each moment. I can choose to love. All my efforts, my positive thoughts, my visualizing, praying, meditating and seeking God does not guarantee I will be free of side effects, pain, nights in the ER, or reoccurrences of cancer.

The mortality rate for life is 100 percent! My life’s final outcome is death, sooner or later. I need, as everyone needs: hope, encouragement, working for the best outcome while loving and accepting myself no matter what happens. I’m finding that when outcomes are not quite what I desired, loving myself is even more important. God will provide all that I need, not everything I want. When I don’t get what I want, I am not a failure; God is not forgetting me any more than I am forgetting something or doing something wrong.

Joyfully,
Sharon

“God, help me believe the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is!” ~Macrina Wiederkehr

The End of the ER Story

At midnight, the ER doc asks me if I’m ready to go home. I did not have neutropenic fever. With no infections found, white cell count good enough to fight whatever is causing my fever, and after consulting Dr. DeGreen Jr. the ER doctor says when my IV fluid bag is empty, I can go home. Jay and I glance at the half full bag and simultaneously stifle a groan, both instantly calculating the hours it took for the first half to go in. Then, Jack bounces back into my room to crank up the speed. We smile with relief as the slow whir turns into a staccato drill, like a determined woodpecker. Before long, I’m dragging my IV line down the hall to the bathroom.

By 2am, I’m gratefully home, in my own sweet bed. I spend the weekend recovering from whatever caused the fever, from lost sleep, and enduring yet more side effects from the antibiotic Levaquin; it’s powerful stuff!

Today, I’m finally feeling more like myself. The fever is gone, and my energy is slowing improving. What is the grace in all this? I’m not sure, I’m still learning. I have an ongoing appreciation for the skill of doctors and nurses, for their kindness and compassion, for a deeper understanding of discouragement, depression and loneliness, and a developing trust in my own body wisdom. I am learning to what I know about my body, while also trusting the medical way of making sure. Perhaps that is enough.

Perhaps I have more to discover. I do know God graciously answered ‘yes’ to two prayers from last week. I asked to be well enough to celebrate my Dad’s 86th birthday with my family. And, I prayed to be able to teach Centering Prayer at my church on Sunday. Once again, an unwanted inconvenience sharpens my awareness of what truly gives me life.

Joyfully,
Sharon

...the rest of the story

The ER is bustling, as usual. After taking my info, I am asked to sit and wait until a bed is ready. I sit, wishing I brought a mask for germ protection, as I watch a man walk in and not make it through registry before suddenly throwing up into a waste can. The receptionist rushes to get him a pan. I find it incredibly ironic to be sent to a hospital emergency room because I might have a low white count and no immune system only to be exposed to violently sick people.

I bring my attention to God’s presence and feel calm even if breathing shallowly to avoid sucking in germs. I remain at the entrance; each time the door opens a fresh chill settles over me. I guess I prefer chilly over the other end of the room where sickness hangs out with cuts needing stitches. I’m compassionately aware of the river of humanity flowing before me: a woman grimaces with back pain, a young boy proudly holds a rag-wrapped cut finger, a belligerent elderly woman with high blood pressure demands her gentle hubby wheel her closer to the desk so no one gets ahead of her, a young man hovers in the lobby, two young men join him – cheers of ‘new dad’ follow with hugs, the dry heaving man lies down across chairs, a baby cries, an orderly explains why someone else is taken before me, nurses and doctors rush about, the receptionist registers those in line while keeping one eye on rows of security monitors. I hear Jay’s breathing beside me. I hold each soul with me in the Presence.

When my name is finally called, I try to keep up with the fast walking nurse leading me down a hallway littered with beds and equipment. She disappears. Light headed, I do my best to speed up. I find her in a room, motioning me to sit on the bed.

Thousands of questions, forms, exams, and an incredible number of tubes of blood later, an IV fluid line protrudes from my chest, via the medi-port. I thank God for Jack, a huge-but- gentle nurse, and for the medi-port, even though my arm got stuck for blood too. I usually have to lift my arm to get blood to flow from the medi-port, but Jack managed without any effort on my part, and without any needle pains either. His skill is much appreciated, though Jay and I couldn’t help exchanging an exasperated smile at the amount of blood drawn, knowing the cancer center would have simply pricked my finger, counted my white cells and sent me home. Maybe the ER was short of blood and I volunteered mine. I didn’t bother reading all the stuff I signed!

At one point, we amused ourselves by guessing what time we’d be home, and by comparing a finger prick to a chest x-ray, and IV line, a urine analysis and multiple blood tests. When our amusement began turning into disgruntlement, we turned on the TV. DeGreen was right about the torture part, torture to the wallet for sure.

Jay settles into watching TV; I listen to my IV line pump. The soft, steady sound transports me back to December’s hospital stay, and a time of being exquisitely held near the heart of God. As before, the pulsating sound becomes holy, as a living Presence, the very breath of God, Divine lungs breathing in and out, in and out, so near. I am connected to the Source of life, by a direct line, literally and spiritually. I am enfolded, sustained by grace, by tender power and humble strength. I feel completely nourished, needing nothing more.

The hours pass. I drift in and out of communion with God. Gratitude fills my heart: for each nurse, each doctor, each test, for my dear partner who loves me through every moody, awful cycle of prednisone withdrawal, for living in a country with good hospitals and medical professionals, for not having to wait all day to be examined, for our health insurance, for being wealthy enough to be where I am and not home dying of untreated cancer.

In this moment, surrounded by Love, I realize how I expected this cycle to be a happy celebration of passing the half-way-through-chemo-treatment milestone. Instead, I got worsening side effects and fever. Instead of happy, I feel angry. I have to go through the same amount as I’m come through. Lurking beneath my anger is fear. I’m afraid I won’t hold out. I’m starting to dread treatment, starting to want this to be over, starting to wish each moment held something different. These emotions catch me off guard. I thought I could count on my inner strength. This unsettles me further. If a simple emotion can upend me, how will I cope if cancer doesn’t go into remission? Upcoming CT scans will reveal the truth and I’m afraid to know.

I am here, sweetheart.

I hear the soft, rhythmic purring. God breathes with me in deep, loving breaths, in and out, in and out. I never bristle when God calls me sweetheart. I feel loved, completely at home in this moment. I have everything I need.

Joyfully,
Sharon


~~~~~
“Consider the lilies of the field. They neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.” Jesus, in Matthew 6

Sharon’s response: “Well, then, help me dress like a lily! I desire God and love, and what gives me life, what really matters. I want to be clothed in ‘living true’, in ‘living with integrity’, in being ‘present to others in love’ rather than dwelling in worry, fear, anger. Is that what you mean by consider the lily?”

Once Again

Once again, I write. It’s been a long, tiring week, so if this blog ends abruptly I may have simply nodded off.

I feel cheated out of a few good days. I got used to ten good days each chemo cycle. My peevishness makes me want my regular life back. I’m torn by conflicting desires: accepting what I can’t change and needing to gripe. I can take my lumps, the crap that comes with chemo, but needless suffering infuriates me. The doctor keeps weaning me off prednisone fast when I need a slow taper! I spoke up last time, but I must have used my nice Lancaster county voice instead of the one I use to train my cattle dogs. The cattle dog voice is calm, but clear and direct: ‘if you nip the back of Jay’s boot ….if you bite that sheep…..you will deeply regret it!” That voice is spoken like it will be followed with action. When I speak to the doctor and am later disappointed my words weren’t heard or understood, I assume doctors know best and don’t act.

Why is it so hard for me to simply tell the doctor, ‘prescribe what you did the first cycle and STOP MESSING with my body or I’ll phone you all hours of the day and night’? I will learn to be calm and clearly direct with people as well as cow dogs. Talented and kind as Dr. DeGreen is, he can’t read my mind or know my body as I know my body.

Monday through Wednesday, I felt miserable: exhausted, prednisone crashing-sweating-mood swinging, Nuelasta-induced bone aching. Thursday I woke up with a fever. It made me mad at God too. I said to God, ‘what, I need more practice rolling over and playing dead?” Doctors may not get my directness, but God often does. I’m glad God is big enough. I’m not stupid though, I know God will show emotion in return. That’s the way it is with relationships. God may tell me to grow up. God may just listen and love me anyway. When I get over myself, I am profoundly grateful for God’s grace.

The cancer center has a policy that frustrates me completely. If a patient has a fever over 100.5, said patient must call the doctor immediately. Any one with body sense knows a fever is probably not going to reach 100 on a thermometer until 4pm. And, of course the center closes at 4pm. All a feverish patient needs is a simple blood test to rule out neutropenic fever (low white cell count w/fever - very dangerous), which the cancer center easily handles. After 4pm most business and labs are closed, so the patient begins dreading fevers and hospitals around 3pm.

My temperature hit 100.5 at precisely 4:10pm, Thursday. I argued with 'the policy' for 30 minutes which only raised my temp .2 points. Reflecting back, I remember my afternoon promise by phone to nurse sister, Laverne, that I would call the doctor if needed. I begin inventing clever lies to deceive Laverne, Jay, myself. At 4:15pm, I feel really sick, and waffle. By 4:17pm, I grab my cell phone, punch in Jay’s number. I’ll ask him what to do. Not taking responsibility seems smart, as I can always blame him if I end up in the hospital. I hear Jay’s phone ringing on his desk. Sigh. I call the doctor, telling myself I'm only reporting in. The medical bureau tells me to call back if the doctor doesn’t reach me in 20 minutes. Three hours pass; I relax into the evening. I did my part.

At 7:30pm the phone rings; Dr. DeGreen Jr. is on call. He hears my story and then gives me three options: go to the ER and suffer all the waiting and tests, be admitted directly to the hospital, be willing to take a strong antibiotic at home while promising to go to ER if my condition worsens. I leap for option three. He doesn’t like option three but, I persuade him. I feel direct and powerful for ten minutes. The phone rings, Dr Jr says he really thinks option 3 is too big a gamble and he really wants me to go to the ER immediately after first swinging by the drugstore and taking that antibiotic ASAP. He says he knows he’s torturing me by asking me to go to the ER. He calls me sweetheart. I deflate, noticing I haven’t bristled at the endearment. He is appealing to my better judgment, saying but not saying all. This time the doctor is being Lancaster County nice. I forgive both of us for our indirectness. He honors me by allowing me to make the final decision. I agree to go to the ER.

Jay comes in then, dusty, muddy, exhausted. I tell him what the doctor said, that I’m gathering stuff for the ER and he needs to go to CVS to pick up antibiotic awhile. I smell the fires of denial and frustration lighting in his belly. I know what it will take for him to get where I am. I pray as he takes his turn figuring out some principles aren’t worth dying for.

I’m too tired to finish the story. Perhaps, tomorrow…

Joyfully,
Sharon