I Never Knew I Would Love It

It had been another week at the library--storytime followed by checking out armloads of books for the kids (plus a few for myself.)

We headed out into the sunshine, but Abby stopped on the steps outside. A mother and a couple kids were heading inside, and one of her little boys had a prosthetic leg that was clearly visible beneath his shorts. Abby stared and stared as the boy scampered obliviously up the stairs and into the building.

"Abby," I said. "Isn't that cool? That boy has a special leg just like I have a special eye."

Of course, this label launched us into a discussion about why the boy had a "special" leg. I offered a few suggestions. And, as I always do in such scenarios, I felt grateful to the tips of my toes for the opportunity to show our kids that different is OK.

I am always the first to admit that cancer is no fun and no one should have to go through what we went through. And yet, so often I am grateful I have a personal experience to relate as I try to demonstrate for our children that different is OK. Sometimes it's wonderful. Before my cancer I don't know how I would have responded to Abby staring at that little boy. But now such little experiences are priceless teaching moments.

I never knew how much cancer could teach me. I never comprehended the depths I would discover or the joy that would follow our sorrow. I never knew how much I would love sharing the things I have learned.

Reflections on My Due Date

My due date came and went three days ago, and I am still pregnant, large, and not-really-in-charge. And I've been doing a lot of reflecting on life.

I should probably preface my next sentiment by saying that there are scads of women in this world who I am sure have harder pregnancies than mine. Yes, I feel pretty darn lousy for a few months in the beginning, but I almost never throw up. Yes, I experience lots of other aches and pains throughout the nine months, but I am sure there are lots of women whose experiences are worse than mine. So the last few weeks whenever I have started to think I was a little bit miserable (such as when the kids and I came down with bad colds at 37-1/2 weeks along), I have reminded myself that I chose this because I think our children are worth it. They are. And that little thought always pulls me out of my pity party in a hurry.

I wish I always felt so cheery about life's challenges. But the fact is that some miseries in life aren't our choice and never would be. Sometimes life presents true anguish and heartache. Some hard times don't have a silver lining like a beautiful new baby to snuggle. That was certainly how my cancer felt for a few years.

Recently we attended the wedding of Cameron's brother, where we enjoyed seeing and catching up with lots of relatives who we don't see often enough. Among them were Cameron's aunt and uncle who opened their home and took such good care of us when we had to go to California for my cancer treatment. During one conversation we had with them, Cameron's uncle recalled the terrible trauma of my cancer experience. I responded with something like the following:

"When I look back now, I don't remember the trauma much anymore. I see the miracles and blessings and how much I've learned. I think any trial can become a blessing if we let it."

Of course, getting to this place of peace was no easy road. But as I look back through the last few years, I see how God put the right people and experiences in my path to bring me healing. And I know that I am safe in His hands.

"Behold, I have graven thee upon palms of my hands..." Isaiah 49:16

*****

We do not know what the future holds. But we know who holds the future. 

*****

"The center of His will is our only safety" --The Hiding Place

I do not know all the reasons why I got to have cancer. But I know if I walk with God, He will show me. And I will marvel at His plan.

I do not know when my baby will come. But I know we are both in His hands. And though I may be tired and huge, being in His hands is still the best place to be.

Making It All Better

Sometimes as mothers we desperately wish we could make everything all better for our kids, don't we? We want to provide them a nice, smooth path with no bumps, weeds, or bruises. And when something goes wrong, we want to do anything we can to fix it. I had one of those moments recently. Grace's finger had been caught in the screen door, and I could immediately tell from her cry that something was both different and wrong. I rocked her in our rocking chair, prayed, sang, kissed her finger over and over, and did everything I could think of to soothe her. And I thought about how life will present her with oh so many owies through the years that I will be powerless to heal.

I also thought of a day last summer when a sweet, well-meaning woman at church inquired after my health. Referencing my cancer, she looked carefully at my eyes and noted how similar they are even though one is plastic. "You would never know the difference, would you?" she asked. I wanted to tell her that I can tell a difference every time I look in the mirror, but I am slowly learning to bite my tongue. For a while afterwards the comment grated on me, and I finally realized why. So often people want to tell me that my eyes look exactly the same, and to me the message is, "Isn't this great? You had cancer and lost an eye but nothing has changed. Everything is all better now." They want to make my cancer all better. But I don't want them to. My cancer changed me forever, and I wouldn't want it any other way.

Because of my cancer I am much more personally acquainted with sudden, acute trauma. I know what it feels like to be told I have a life-threatening illness. I know what it is to worry if I will live to raise my children or wonder if it is safe to have more. I know what it feels like to look different, to have people stare and point. I know what it feels like to be afraid to go out in public and have people treat me like I’m handicapped. I know how awkward it feels to run into old friends who are afraid to talk about why I’m wearing an eye patch. I know how incredibly alone you can feel after a major loss when people don’t know what to say or do so they don’t say or do anything at all.

Now I know what all of these things feel like. And I hope I know in some small way how to better love and reach others who are hurting. I don't want anyone to make my cancer all better. That healing ultimately lies in the hands of my Savior, and He does an amazing job of providing the experiences I need to heal spiritually and emotionally from the trauma of my cancer.

In the same way, as much as I want to protect my kids and make everything all better, that really isn't my job. Its His. My job is to lead them to Him, let them feel His love, and know that in the end, no matter how many thorns and weeds are on the path, Jesus Christ will make it all better.

Luxury Bathrooms and Life Lessons

We recently finished re-doing our master bathroom. Last summer Cameron found some water damage and gutted the whole room. I should have taken some pictures, but if you can just imagine a room without a floor and with only some of the walls left intact, you'll pretty much have it. The last several months we talked to plumbers and shopped for fixtures and parts. And boy is it nice to have a bathroom again.

We got a luxury two-person tub on clearance.

And we finally have the dual shower heads we've always wanted.

Of course, pregnancies spent working on home renovation projects remind me of June 4, 2009, when Cameron spent the evening hammering baseboards into the playroom we were building. We were so excited for our second baby, who was due the next month, and we couldn't wait to watch our kids play together. The next day I walked into a doctor's office and was diagnosed with cancer. Quite suddenly finishing the playroom didn't matter. Purchasing the last couple baby items didn't matter. Eating didn't matter--I had no appetite. All that mattered was our marriage--our covenants with God and each other. All that I cared about was whether I would live to raise my children.

Months later as we started trying to regroup and crawl away from the trauma that encompassed that summer, we talked about what we had learned from my cancer, and we formulated what we now refer to as the cancer test. In the midst of my cancer all that mattered was our faith and our family. Life is so easily filled with things of no worth. Now when we make decisions, we hold our options up to the cancer test. If choices don't bring us closer to each other or to Jesus Christ, there's an excellent chance they aren't worth our time and money.

I think of the cancer test as I look at our bathroom now. If a fancy tub and shower gives me and Cameron a few extra minutes together, that time is precious to us. And if our three little monkeys all want to splash together in Mom and Dad's huge new tub or use it for their "cave" the answer is always yes.

Bathrooms come and bathrooms go, but families are forever. Thank goodness.

Lazarus, Easter, and the Rameumptom

We had been listening to our New Testament Scripture Scouts CDs in the car, and one day while running errands we heard the segment from John 11 where Christ raised Lazarus from the dead. Apparently Jake got the song stuck in his head, because he spent hours that evening running around the house boisterously singing, "Lazarus, come forth!" (It was cute the first five or so times. After that I was wishing outside temperatures were a little more humane so he could share his enthusiasm with the backyard.)

Later during dinner I had a lovely chat with the kids about some of the beauties of John 11--specifically the fact that Jesus wept when He saw Mary and Martha's grief, even though He knew He was about to bring Lazarus back. We worship a God who grieves when we grieve, joys with us, and is touched by our experiences. To me it is a principle of incomparable beauty and wonder. After I explained it to the kids Jake said, "Maybe Jesus cried when you got your cancer."

"Maybe He did," I said. "That was really scary for me because I wanted to live to be your mom."

"Yeah," Abby chimed in, "but you didn't need to worry because we have the Rameumptom."

Uh, I think the word you are searching for here is Resurrection.

Easter is coming soon. How nice that we already know what vocabulary words we will be focusing on.

Grateful

It sneaks up on me and I never quite know when it will hit. Someone says something or does something. I see something, hear something, or feel something. Suddenly I can do nothing but quietly weep with overwhelming gratitude. I had cancer and I am still alive. I am with my precious family. Hopefully I can still grow old with Cameron. Hopefully I can still raise our children. Hopefully we can still have more children one day.

I have never felt like I have had words to adequately express how traumatic it was to be diagnosed with cancer while I was pregnant. Words don't describe the agony of wondering if you will live long enough for your unborn baby to remember you or the anguish of picturing your sweet little toddler at your funeral.

But on the other side of such surpassing sorrow is soul-deep joy and gratitude.

At Thanksgiving we all pause to reflect on what we're grateful for. This year, as in every year since my cancer, I am just so grateful I am alive.