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.

O Come Let Us Adore Him

We will be spending Christmas Eve morning this year cooking and serving breakfast at the local Ronald McDonald House. Early in the year I was praying about how to help one of our kids, and I felt that we needed to provide them more service opportunities. We did a bit of research and felt good about the Ronald McDonald House.

For those who aren't aware, Ronald McDonald Houses are built around the world to serve families of sick kids who are staying in nearby hospitals. They provide a temporary group home for these families who are enduring medical trauma. After our little road trip to San Francisco a few years ago, we have a lot of compassion for people in these circumstances. We were incredibly blessed that during my cancer adventure Cameron's parents came to San Francisco to care for us and help with Jake, and Cameron's Aunt Kim and Uncle Craig provided a place for us to stay, love, and warm meals when we weren't in the hospital. We will always love all of them for the way they jumped to care for us.

The first time we made breakfast at the Ronald McDonald House I struck up a conversation with a young mother from Idaho. I asked about her baby, and the woman told me the baby was four months old and had cancer in her eye. They were going to the doctor that day to find out whether she would need to have her whole eye removed.

What would it be like to be told that your beautiful baby daughter has cancer and might need to lose an eye?

I told her my story and indicated which of my eyes is a prosthesis. She commented that she felt a lot better after seeing my eye and talking to me. I hope that she went to their doctor's appointments that day with a bit more hope.

The Babe born in Bethlehem so long ago whose birth we celebrate each year with gifts and carols lives today and guides our lives.

He sent dozens of people to my rescue during my cancer ordeal.

And He sent me to a local Ronald McDonald House this year to comfort a young mother whose baby had cancer, too.

O, come let us adore Him.

Cocoons

Since my cancer, I find myself even more drawn to scriptural accounts of Christ's healing power.

Have ye any that are sick among you? Bring them hither. Have ye any that are lame, or blind, or halt, or maimed, or leprous, or that are withered, or that are deaf, or that are afflicted in any manner? Bring them hither and I will heal them, for I have compassion upon you; my bowels are filled with mercy.

I picture myself at the feet of the Savior. He would heal my eye. I close my eyes and try to remember what it was like to see out of both eyes. I'm starting to forget.

And it came to pass that when he had thus spoken, all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, and their lame, and with their blind, and with their dumb, and with all them that were afflicted in any manner; and he did heal them every one as they were brought forth unto him.

 And they did all, both they who had been healed and they who were whole, bow down at his feet, and did worship him; and as many as could come for the multitude did kiss his feet, insomuch that they did bathe his feet with their tears.

Recently when I saw a depiction of Christ's marvelous healing recorded in the Book of Mormon in 3 Nephi 17, I was struck with a new thought: If Christ were here to heal me now, what growing experiences would I miss? How would my eternal progression be stunted? What would I not become?

And then I thought of butterflies and cocoons. Butterflies must struggle and work to emerge from their cocoons. But if that struggle is cut prematurely short, their wings don't have the strength to fly. They are forever stunted.

The Lord gives each of us cocoons to struggle against. One of mine is living with one eye. Like Paul, we may sometimes wish to be healed of our "thorn in the flesh". But if His perfect wisdom was overcome by His mercy and He cut our struggles prematurely short, our growth would be forever stunted. We wouldn't become what He made us to be.

Photos courtesy of Wikipedia commons

Prosthetic Eye FAQs

Here are answers to some of the questions I occasionally get about my prosthetic eye. If you have a question that I don’t answer here, leave it in the comments section and I will be happy to respond. (Please note: at the bottom of the post there is a picture of me without my prosthetic eye. It is not overly graphic, but if you aren't comfortable, don't scroll to the bottom.)

Q. Can you drive?
A. Yes. The oncologist who removed my eye informed me that the only thing I can't do with just one eye is fly an airplane. I have since heard of monocular people who have flown, but taking to the lofty blue has never been tempting to me with either one eye or two.

Q. Does your real eye get tired?
A. No. I figure my chances of going blind are higher. (I deal with that fear in this post.) And I have been advised to wear glasses to protect my remaining eye. But those are the only considerations so far for my live eye.

Q: What is your prosthetic eye made out of?

A: In former eras prosthetic eyes were made out of glass, earning them the name “glass eyes”. Now they are made out of acrylic (plastic).

Q: Is your prosthetic eye round?

A: When I met with my oncologist two days after my eye was removed, he showed me some prosthetic eyes. I was confused that they weren’t round. Prosthetic eyes are actually shaped like a thick contact lens.

My prosthetic eye

Q: Where did you get your prosthetic eye?

A: I chose an ocularist (there are two in Utah) to make my eye. Creating a prosthetic eye is a three-day process. On the first day he measured the pupil of my live eye and made a mold of my empty eye socket. The second day I sat there while he painted my prosthetic eye to closely match my live eye. The third day I went back and my eye was finished and he put it in for me.(I really like my ocularist, but I felt a bit like a specimen in Frankenstein’s lab during the process.)

Q: Can you take your eye out?

A: Yes, but I usually don’t simply because I don’t need to. If it gets extremely itchy I might remove it to soak it or give my socket a brief rest. But that would only be for a few minutes.

Q: Does your prosthetic eye move?

A: Yes. When my eye was removed the muscles were detached from my eyeball and attached to a small, round, coral-like implant. The muscles move the implant. My prosthetic eye sits on top of the muscles and moves similarly to my live eye.

Waiting for my ocularist to clean my eye 

Q. Does it hurt to wear a prosthetic eye?
A. No. I can't feel it when I wear it; and as long as I'm not too rough putting it in and taking it out, that doesn't hurt, either.

Q: What does your socket look like?

A: When my eye is removed nothing holds open the eye lid, so you can’t see in the socket very well. But if you were to hold my eyelids open, you would see pink tissue that looks like the inside of your lip.

Thank You

Last week we attended a family dinner for Cameron's grandpa's 90th birthday. It would be hard to describe in a blog post how much Grandpa has meant to me through the years. He lost his eyesight to macular degeneration almost 20 years ago, but he still plays the organ, performs regularly for Toastmasters, works at the temple, and gets around just fine with his seeing-eye dog, Hudson. When I lost my eye I looked to him more than once for perspective and encouragement as I grieved my own loss of sight and found peace in my new normal. He still inspires me to believe that if I one day have less sight than I do now, life will still be OK.

Grandpa, Grandma, and Hudson

After his birthday dinner everyone sat around the table asking him to retell favorite stories from his life. This time I found the most comfort from the time when he was six years old, got in a neighborhood fight, knocked a kid unconscious with a 2x4, and ended up in juvenile court. Ahh, I thought, if someone as wonderful as Grandpa had such a rough start, there's hope even for my kids (who thankfully haven't knocked anyone unconscious or gone to juvenile court).

Then I thought about how much everyone in our family adores Grandpa and loves his stories and needs to  hear about his life and be uplifted by his example. I thought about how much we all need each other in life--the stories, encouragement, and experiences people share can lift us and lighten our paths. We need each other.

And then I thought about how much I have needed and appreciated through the years the readers of this blog. Each one of your lives has touched mine in some way, and I am grateful for the richness of people's experiences and examples that I can learn from. Thank you.

Sweeter

Sometimes I wonder if one of my kids will feel a need to write their memoirs of what it was like being raised by a mother with only one eye. Some days I step on them, stumble over them, or just don’t realize they’re there on my blind side. When they play doctor, they usually pretend one of them has cancer. My kids have watched as I have taken my prosthetic eye out to show to neighborhood boys or kids at church who are interested. Other times I have worn an eye patch, and people in public have commented or asked questions. My kids have listened quietly or added their own thoughts—like the time four-year-old Jake followed a curious girl around the library explaining that I had lost my eye to cancer but I was just grateful to be alive, and he was grateful, too. Tender and sweet.

Then recently I went to my ocularist to have my prosthetic eye cleaned, and my kids came with me. Apparently watching my eye be removed and later put back in was an experience that necessitated some emotional sorting. On our drive home Abby said, “Mommy, I keep both of my eye balls in my eye spots.”

“Yes, dear, you do.”

What are my experiences like for my children? I don’t know. But I hope that along the way I can teach them to be compassionate and accepting of those who seem different. I hope I can teach them that life is precious and can change in an instant. I hope I can show them that I may only have one eye, but I am grateful to my core that I am alive to laugh with them, play with them, and love them. In that way, life with one eye is sweeter than life with two ever was.

Hope

Recently we spent some time up in Logan, Utah, at one of our favorite places: the American West Heritage Center. It's a living history place where the kids can throw tomahawks, card wool, pull a handcart, ride a pony or a train, milk a cow, hunt for chicken eggs, stop by the general store for some hard candy, and learn and experience novel things about life in the American West. We love it there.

On this trip we stopped in the Woodwright Shop, which was being manned by a talkative grandpa named Jack. I noticed this picture on the wall and asked who the man was.

"That's Patch Peterson," Jack said. "He started this shop. That's what happens when you use a high-speed drill with a low-speed bit."

He went on. "He left two years ago. He can barely see anything anymore."

Instantly, I felt a little sick. I always feel uncomfortable when people in their 50s, 60s, or 70s talk about one of their eyes not working very well anymore. I only have one eye left. In a couple decades will my world go really fuzzy or completely dark? I try not to think about it too much.

Hope is a choice, I often tell myself. I can't live in fear of going blind. I can't live in fear of my cancer returning. I can live in fear or live in faith. I am alive. I don't want my life to be over because I had cancer. I remember the words of a friend who lost both eyes to cancer: "Life being blind is still a life worth living."

I swallowed hard. I tried not to panic as I processed what Jack told me about Patch Peterson. He finished with this: "He's about 75 years old. Now he has to carve by feel. Some of his stuff is for sale in the gift shop."

Patch lost an eye and now, in his 70s, is pretty blind. But he can still carve well enough to sell his stuff. "Life being blind is still a life worth living." Hope is still there. Hope is a choice.

Setting the Record Straight

I recently finished reading Princess Academy by Shannon Hale.

I thought it presented a nicely developed plot with a satisfying ending. Ms. Hale is obviously a talented writer. But I do have one bone to pick with her. At one point in the novel she introduces a group of bandits and, as it happens, one of the bandits has only one eye.

Have you ever noticed the way one-eyed creatures are popularly portrayed as being rather sinister...mean...evil...fearsome?

Pirates.


Cyclops.


Monsters.


Even The Best Christmas Pageant Ever describes the notoriously troublesome Herdman family as owning a one-eyed cat who was "the meaning-looking animal [you] ever saw". They kept a Beware of Cat sign to warn people.

For the record, I only have one eye, but I think I'm a reasonably nice person. Certainly nicer than your average pirate. I would like to read something where a one-eyed person is virtuous and kind.

Perhaps I should start writing.

Danger

Let me start by saying that I may only have one eye, but I don't like to think of myself as blind or handicapped. I have to swallow hard when people assume I can't read as well. And it was a bit of a blow a few weeks ago when Jake covered one eye and announced, "I'm blind like Mommy!" That being said, I have recently discovered one situation where I feel, uh, shall we say handicapped? The elementary school parking lot.

Yes, I know that driving through a parking lot teeming with small children (and the occasional small animal) could make anyone anxious. But I can't shift my minivan into reverse in that parking lot without being just sure that someone is about to be catapulted into the ER. I crane my neck first over one shoulder then the other. I adjust my seat. I occasionally open a window to be certain. I inch slowly backwards. I pause and marvel that I haven't heard the thumping sound of someone becoming one with the pavement. I inch farther. Several minutes later, I emerge from the parking lot.

I've decided that perhaps I should post the following sign in my back window:

Unfortunately, the people I worry about most are the ones who are too small to be seen and too young to read how imperiled their lives are about to become. And one look at my sign would surely convince some cell-phone wielding driver one vehicle over that I needed a police escort. I'm sure the carpooling kindergarteners in my backseat would love to see the inside of a cop car. I would not.

Sigh. I guess I'll keep craning my neck. Or perhaps I'll just attach a loudspeaker to my bumper. "Attention, please. If you value your scholastic potential, step away from my minivan."