all the sins we see

He raped me. My friend, sweet and gentle, said it straight out like she was talking about the movie we'd seen not too long ago together. I remember I was instantly angry. Did you report it? I asked. She snuggled her new baby son to her, we could hear our husbands downstairs in a life and death Mario Kart match and she shrugged. No. It was so long ago, he went to the same church as me. Besides, she said, I was dating him. It was my fault. 

It was my fault. 

Her son is so grown now, almost eleven, like mine. Hard be believe he could fit in the crook of her arm so snugly, he's big and strong now. Tall like his Dad, smart and generous. So much has changed in that time, but her words have haunted me. We don't talk about it, not about her stories or mine. We're older now, mature or something? We've obviously gotten beyond those stories, it's the pain we don't share - we just know, just understand. It's a familiarity, an expectation, that in vulnerable hearts scattered around us, disguised as beauty, strength, overconfidence, anxiety, fear and anger in the women we encounter. It's an awareness, that perhaps something like this, is one of their stories. 

I was nineteen when I said those words too. Because, it was my fault, wasn't it? I had certainly been the one to encourage him by emailing back and forth with him on a regular basis. It had probably been my idea to meet up with him to go for a walk. Of course I had noticed that it was getting late, and that we were walking into a more and more isolated area, but I hadn't had a boy like me before. Not one that had admitted it so openly, or who had been so sweet and complimentary. Maybe I had the idea from watching a romantic movie or two, that when a boy asked to kiss you - that was what he meant. Just a kiss, awkward, blushing, not frantic or groping, or pushing or panicked, not desperately trying to think of an excuse to leave, finally saying - it's getting late, if I miss curfew I'll be in trouble. Then relief, and thinking, it's done - I'm free. 

The freedom was fleeting, as it turned out, he'd left marks on me. Big, glaring, obvious. I probably would have preferred the A on my chest. It would have been less noticeable. I knew, at that point, staring in the mirror before getting ready for bed, I couldn't hide it from anyone. In light of having the world's eyes on me, I did what a good girl does. I assessed the level of my sin (somewhere between shoplifting and sex) and I took responsibility. It was my fault became my mantra - my safe space. Because if I owned the guilt, maybe I could weather the shame. I repeated it at breakfast the next morning, my transgressions obvious to my family, and I was ashamed. When I went out that afternoon, and ran into a pastor friend, and he confronted me about what happened, I repeated it, and I was ashamed. When my friends asked, I said the same thing, and I was ashamed. It felt like God had put out an APB on me, and I had to confess to everyone, anyone I came across I owed an answer to. When I later confronted the boy himself, he confirmed it was my fault - wasn't that exactly what I had asked for? After all, I had let him do that to me. 

It was a good lie, it turns out. Because no one ever asked me, is that what you thought would happen? Is that really what you wanted to happen? Are you OK? I don't believe that this was your fault...

It has taken years for me to listen to what I most needed to hear - What an asshole. This isn't your fault. You didn't leave any mark on him, he didn't have to confess to his parents, his family, his church, his friends. It's fine with him that you carry the mark, the brand, the shame - he doesn't want any part of it. You're strong, you got out of there, before things got worse. It's no one else's business. I love you. (God)

Ok, so maybe God didn't say asshole, but you get the drift. When the words finally sunk in, it was like a shock to the system. It wasn't my fault. He took advantage of the situation, he assaulted me. It opened a door. Instead of it being painful for me to say this boy's name, I could forgive him, I could be free of him, and most importantly, I could forgive myself - and  heal up an old, A shaped wound. 

My point. Of course. This experience has taught me about who I am, and how I am defined. But more importantly, it has made me soft to the sins we see. Touted usually by vulnerable people who don't fit in to a Christian box, or society's box, or some other box that we're so eager to fit inside. People feeling pain and shame, who think the eyes of the world are turned on them - and that God's judgement is on them like a branded letter A. It's time to love them, to hear their stories, to share their pain, their laughter, their healing. To no longer be afraid that shame is greater than love. That blame is greater than love. 

It's not your fault. It's no one else's business. I love you. 

GSA's The Last Battle

Over the past few years, the issue of Gay Straight Alliances and their connection to Christian schools has one that has caused ripples of concern in many communities determined to stand toe to toe with the Alberta NDP government. It has come down to theology vs. politics, and the fight has centered mostly on small, rural Christian schools, as well as with Catholic districts uncomfortable with the new legislation. As with most things, I'm late to the party but I finally know what I think about it all - or at least I will by the time I'm finished writing this. 

From what I understand, this struggle stems from the way each group defines the origins of homosexuality and trans-gendered people. Something that I am no where near qualified to speak about, and so will avoid it as much as possible. The government stated that Gay Straight Alliances cannot be banned, and should be supported in schools. GSA's provide a safe space for students who may be wondering how to "come out", or who are dealing with other relevant issues of that nature. Student attendance in these groups would not be reported to parents. For Christian schools, this creates an uncomfortable situation. Christians look at issues of sexuality in many different ways, and all parents sending their children to Christian schools have varying expectations regarding how the topic of sexuality is dealt with for their child. On top of this the question of religious freedom is a very important one. I can understand the Christian perspective that feels the government is infringing too much on religious beliefs. This, and other logistics around Christian schools has ended up creating tensions politically, and socially across various groups. 

As a parent, a teacher and a Christian, this issue has given me a great deal to consider. It seems that I am facing an intersection of ideologies and moving forward can be uncomfortable in any direction. As a parent, I want to teach my children to love, and show love especially to people who are different to them, or to people who are experiencing different things from them. As a teacher my heart is for the students who come, even in Christian schools from difficult situations and backgrounds, and I want them to grow and thrive in spite of circumstances. As a Christian, I think that we come from a many different positions on sexuality, from the perspective that any alternate sexual lifestyle is sinful to the point of view that God is love, and that he created each person as they are. As a person of faith, I want to find the perspective that is the most healthy, and affirming to teach my own children. 

As a teenager, I grew up in the "true love waits" era in a strong purity culture. I was proud of my purity ring, and made my stance on premarital sex very clear. I didn't want it, and that was that...until I got a boyfriend, then my world shifted dramatically. Then, not only did I want it, I wondered how much I could get away with before I really "stepped over the line." I wanted to be free to explore my sexuality to it's fullest extent, but there was one thing that held me back. 

I grew up in an imperfect but very loving home. My parents said I love you, I support you, you are wonderfully made. But the one thing that prevented me from participating in a sexual lifestyle before I was married, was the absolute fear that I would get pregnant. Pregnancy, similar to homosexuality or being transgender is impossible to hide. It leaves the individual open to public scrutiny. Once pregnant, abortion was out of the question, and I knew if I had to tell my parents that I was pregnant the shame would be a lifelong stain. It would color me and the baby in a way that we would never escape , and that feeling was so tactile I held myself back. The mask of purity was held in place firmly by fear, I was no more "godly" than the next person, and whenever someone older commented on how well I was doing, and how I was an example to other younger people I died a little on the inside. Because a "pure" relationship with God wasn't even what was holding me back, it was fear. I know that I was not the only one. I know of instances for others where sexual assault and even rape went unreported, because of the guilt and shame those individuals experienced, and the fear that they would be judged by their own faith communities. 

I say all of that, only to point out - that I came from a loving and supportive home, and I was terrified. As Christians, we see the very best in our brothers and sisters, and we want to believe that they too would be loving and supportive of their children with an unintended pregnancy, or coming out as homosexual, or transgender. But the truth is both sad and alarming. On twitter there is a group that calls themselves "Exvangelicals" and identify as people who have left an evangelical church, and in many cases have left Christianity all together because of abuses they experienced, yes - at the hands of pastors, people in authority, but often because of abuses by parents. These stories have shocked and saddened me. But, it is important to hear them and to change the way I raise my own children.  

On a recent road trip we chose an old favorite audio book, C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle. It's a story that Brad and I love, and hope that our children will begin to love as well. I find, it's always nice to hear a familiar tale once again, but this time around something stuck out at me that I hadn't paid attention to before. 

Around half way through the book, Lewis introduces a character named Emeth. I have since learned that this character is somewhat controversial, but while I was listening to the story Emeth captivated me. Emeth is in fact not from Narnia. He is instead, a servant of the Tisroc, and called a Calormene - long standing enemies of Narnia. Emeth is in Narnia as a part of a secret invasion force. In search for his god, Tash, Emeth finds himself in Aslan's country, and face to face with Aslan himself. Emeth tells Aslan that his desire is to meet with Tash, and that his entire life has been done in service to this god. Interestingly, Aslan welcomes Emeth to his country, and explains that "I take to me the services which thou hast done to Tash [the false god]... if any man swear by him and keep his oath for the oath's sake, it is by me that he has truly sworn, though he know it not, and it is I who reward him." CS Lewis, (The Last Battle)  

This position is of course controversial in Christian circles as it seems to imply that Lewis believes people from various backgrounds and beliefs might be saved, even without the direct knowledge of Jesus. I learned that CS Lewis defended his writing from Jesus' parable about the sheep and the goats. 

I think that every prayer which is sincerely made even to a false god, or to a very imperfectly conceived true God, is accepted by the true God and that Christ saves many who do not think they know him. For He is (dimly) present in the good side of the inferior teachers they follow. In the parable of the Sheep and Goats those who are saved do not seem to know that they have served Christ.(CS Lewis, commentary from a letter 1952)

If you're still reading, you might be wondering where I'm going with this. As you might have suspected, I'm not here to argue Lewis' theology. The truth is, I haven't spent much time thinking about inclusivisim or soteriology. But, I deeply respect CS Lewis and his works. What struck me most about this part of the book was the exploration by the author of a question that was deeply important to him in spite of the fact that was, and still is controversial. By the way Lewis describes Aslan throughout the Chronicles of Narnia, the reader can make inferences about Lewis' personal relationship with God as a loving, devoted father, but as the books point out on several occasions Aslan is not a tame lion. Yet, Lewis feels comfortable in his relationship with God to ask these deep, controversial questions, and come at them with an answer from a very different answer than what is believed in the mainstream. 

This leads me into some conclusions about GSAs. From the perspective of a teacher, of course you always think the best of student's parents in your classroom - but if you are honest you know that each situation is very different.  What the child experiences at home may be very different than what it is presented to be. As a teacher it is my legal obligation to report any suspected incident of abuse - ultimately for the safety of the child. In a Christian school, as anywhere, this would be an extremely difficult situation. As a teacher, it is most important for me to hold my beliefs and obligations in balance, but when the situation calls for it, when the situation calls for it, the thing that I am obligated to do would take precedent over personal beliefs say, for example, about who I might believe a parent is. 

For Christians the subject of homosexuality and trans-gendered people is a difficult one, we don't have good theological answers, and the answers we do have feel conflicted at best. Yet, it is time to face the reality that there are  Christian kids grappling with these issues and don't know how to express themselves, yet are desperate to do so. From my own experience, I can say that if there had been a place that I considered safe when I was dealing with coming to terms with my own sexuality, it might have made things easier for me and for others. I believe as Christians, as people of faith, we have something positive to bring to GSAs. We have to set aside that it is uncomfortable, and grapple with those issues on our own later, and reach out to these kids like Jesus himself reached out to prostitutes and the least among his own people who were considered visible in their sin to the society. It didn't change who Jesus was, or what he was going to do, but it showed us his love in action standing against the norms of his day. Just as CS Lewis was able to sit at the feet of his Father, and ask a difficult question, so should we. 

This year, that's where I intend to be. Happy New Year. 

*Images are not my own. Copyright CS Lewis - The Last Battle 

Fallout

 I've had anxiety my whole life. Thinking about the symptoms, and when and where it started is impossible. I've been anxious as long as I can remember. On the anniversary of the day that I was diagnosed with lymphoma, I had a panic attack. It was intense, and took hours to recover from. Over the following four weeks, I experienced several more. The symptoms were becoming immobilizing and all consuming. My face would tingle, and I wouldn't be able to move. They were unpredictable, and my anxiety only increased. 

It has been this crux that has compelled me to ask for help, and I realized something. My perspective was totally and completely fractured. I've grown up believing that the worries, fears and anxieties that have plagued me were sinful, they were the result of weak and wavering faith. I've learned that rather, this anxiety is a part of who I am. It's not a part I enjoy, but I know it's not going to go away. It's something that I need to live with, and I have a choice. I can continue to experience panic attacks, guilt over feeling that my faith isn't strong enough, fear that I am not a good mother, that I am teaching my kids that anxiety is "normal". Or, I can accept it. I can learn about what I'm dealing with, and start to use the tools at my disposal to change the way my brain functions. To allow that "fight, flight or freeze" response to work in a more regular way. 

From a faith perspective I know that God loves me the way that I am. I know the anxiety doesn't come from him, and that he loves me in spite of it. That he doesn't want anything to come in the way of our relationship, and that in the dark moments, when the fear builds and the panic comes that he is with me too. That he never leaves. 

It's a journey. It's about me taking a step today, to confront the things that I have been taught that have led me to believe things that are wrong. It's about me teaching my kids that being healthy isn't just in your body, it's in your heart and mind too. 


Merry Christmas, and hopes for a brighter New Year.

My Lymphoma Journey

Looking back on this past year I sometimes feel like I am looking back on someone else's life and experiences. According to how doctor's measure lymphoma remission, mine started just after my final chemo treatment was finished in April, and so I've technically been in remission for around six months, but it feels pretty new to me. I've had lots of time to think and reflect and wonder about it all.

In February 2017 I had a full body x-ray. I was seeing a chiropractor, and he wanted to get a good idea of what my spine looked like etc. At that time, I wasn't made aware of anything abnormal. The only reason I point this out, is because the next x-ray I had, in November 2017, picked up a mass in my chest 11cm x 8cm in diameter. The difference in a mere ten months is astounding.

People often ask what symptoms I had, how did it all start?

I can remember as far back as March, and between March and May of 2017 the things I experienced could have been symptoms, or they could have been random, but I remember that at night I could feel a slight pressure in my chest. It would made me cough a dry, breathy cough. But, the cough was intermittent, and the pressure/discomfort in my chest only happened at night, and I didn't really recognize it as anything significant. As the months progressed, I began to be tired, at first - tired at night, I fell asleep quickly and slept all night long (which is probably why I didn't recognize that pressure in my chest, I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it). From there my tiredness increased. In the evenings I had no energy left from the day, and I would fall asleep in front of the TV, then wake up and be able to sleep all night long. The tiredness did progress to a place where I would wake up feeling tired, but that was closer to when I was diagnosed.

Another thing I experienced that I now believe was connected, was I had developed severe pain in my legs and feet, that increased over the months of about May - Sept. to a place where I could barely stand to walk. Walking was so painful, that getting anywhere was a chore, and I excused the fact that I was consistently out of breath on both my weight, and my very sore feet. On our small family vacation in July 2017 I had an excruciating visit to the museum in Drumheller and the Calgary Zoo. I could walk, but only short distances before I was fully out of breath, and the pain in my legs was nearly crippling. But, I got myself some shoe inserts, and kept expecting that the pain would eventually subside. I was still coughing, and in August, I began to feel something in my throat. It felt like something was always caught in there, and I had to constantly try to clear it out. Still, only a mild irritation, and all things were disconnected in my mind, and so I didn't think to talk to a doctor about it.

The cold I had persisted, and in September the "lump" in my throat was becoming more pronounced. I had to swallow food twice, and I was starting to feel itchy. When I ran my hands over my abdomen, I would end up scratching and scratching. Each of the symptoms I mentioned never fully subsided, instead, more things just kept adding themselves on. By mid October I was feeling constant pain, like a pulled muscle in my shoulders and central back. Even visits to the chiropractor were not helping. I have a condition called SVT, where my heart will beat very quickly now and again, and I have to have a short rest to get it to slow down.  Episodes of a racing heart were happening more frequently, and they seemed different from my regular SVT. During another trip to Calgary I was in the pool with my kids and hit my knee on the tiled edge of a seat. My skin split open, and the cut bled significantly. I can remember being surprised at the time to see so much bleeding from such an insignificant cut. At the same time I noticed a large, very dark bruise on my side. I could not remember an injury that would have caused such a huge bruise, and it was about that time I started to feel a lump in my left thigh. Also around this time, I was exhausted, even getting up the stairs at my house was a chore and I was coughing almost continuously. To top it all off, I was now struggling to swallow water, my chest was tight and painful and I was exhausted. It was a day's worth of energy to walk from one side of King's campus to another, which is not a big place.

I went back to a Doctor at the walk in clinic, and though I did describe my symptoms, I sometimes wonder if I could have been more clear. I was diagnosed with Strep Throat. The antibiotics seemed to help a bit, and I was just nearing the end of my cycle of drugs when I noticed a firm but movable lump in my upper thigh. Very concerned, I went back to my Doctor. I had been worriedly pressing at my leg before my appointment, hoping that the lump had disappeared, and when I showed my Doctor she actually got quite upset with me. My entire upper leg was bruised. I was merely pressing, and bruising almost instantly. She thought I probably had a lipoma, and wanted me to get an x-ray at my next opportunity. I had also started coughing so violently at night, that I was vomiting, and so it was about two days later that I was getting ready for a shower and noticed a tight, hard lump about the size of a dime in my groin. I showed Brad, and we decided that I should point it out when I got an x-ray in a few days time. That night, at about 2am, I woke up in extreme pain. The lump in my groin had grown from the size of a dime to the size of a large lime. Convinced it was a hernia, we sped off to the emergency room.

Looking back on all of those symptoms, it seems laughable that I was "surprised" when the Dr. came back to tell me that they had found something suspicious on the x-ray. But, I think that it's hard to keep track of symptoms when you're going about your day to day life experiences. In health, I've always had different symptoms now and then, they resolve, and a person moves on. I do remember just before I was diagnosed, I was feeling pretty awful, and I said to Brad, "I don't think I'm ever going to be normal again." I'm also a serial googler, and I looked up my symptoms all the time. I know I came across lymphoma sites, and though I could relate to some of the symptoms, I couldn't relate to them all, and because lymphoma is rare in 30 somethings, both me and my Drs missed it. I've generally accepted that it's no one's fault. Do I wish I caught it earlier? Yes. All the time. But, we caught it, we treated it, and hopefully we've cured it.

I spent about four very uncomfortable nights in the hospital before my biopsy. My symptoms increased, and I was trying to adjust to the idea of having cancer. It was like life was coming to a full stop, and something different, something unrecognizable was starting. My mom dropped everything, her entire life, and was here in Edmonton. The two weeks before being referred to the Cross Cancer Institute were probably the worst of my life. The itching had increased to a fervor, and I was scratching so much my skin was bruising, bleeding and coming off with the scratching. I felt like the itch was down in my muscles. I was coughing all the time, and could hardly eat due to the fact that I couldn't swallow. I was coughing and vomiting, and couldn't take a full breath. Brad said he often laid awake at night worried I would stop breathing. I couldn't get up the stairs, and I was having bouts of the chills.

I was admitted to the hospital at the beginning of December for my first PET scan (Stage 4, DLBCL) and first round of chemo. My Doctor told me that untreated, I had about six months left, and that even with treatment I would likely have to go through radiation treatments once chemo was finished. I was pretty much ready to agree to anything. Lymphoma is different from other cancers because for most people, chemo makes a person with cancer feel sick, but with Lymphoma the symptoms are so severe the chemo alleviates them very quickly. I was feeling so rough from the Lymphoma, the first round of chemo was quite literally a relief. I was given the standard R-CHOP, five chemotherapy drugs: Rituximab, Cyclophosphamide, Doxorubicin, Vincristine, and Prednisone. Prior to about 2007, Lymphoma patients were typically given the CHOP drugs, but when Rituximab was added Lymphoma survival rates began to increase. Initially I had a common reaction to the Rituximab, it made my head itch, but Benadryl was my savior. My symptoms decreased significantly, and throughout the six chemo treatments if I followed the prescribed recommendations, taking drugs when I needed to, I was nausea free and was able to continue life in a relatively normal manner. During this time we fixed up, and made some minor changes to our house, got it sold, found a new place and moved in. At my concluding PET scan I had achieved a complete response. It was nothing short of a miracle.

The chance that someone under 40 gets lymphoma is about 10 in 100,000. So, in a way I won a pretty crappy lottery. But, in another way, I won a really important lottery. I was presented with a drug study for Lymphoma. It was a study of about 45 adults all over the world. After being treated with chemo, I was given a drug infusion that lasted 24 hours a day for 8 weeks. I am being studied to see if this drug will help to prevent a relapse. Though relapses are fairly uncommon in Lymphoma, they happen in about 15 - 30% of cases. The drug moves through your body attacking both active and dormant cancer cells. I was the first person in Canada to receive this particular drug for Lymphoma. I hope that this study will result wider government approvals.

I've been out of treatment now since the end of June. I am very hopeful that life will continue normally. I feel like I've only really scratched the surface - but I want to remember as much as I can. I hope that I can help others, who may be experiencing lymphoma right now. I am so grateful for my Doctors, Health Professionals, The Cross Cancer Institute, The Lab Technicians, The Nurses, the Canadian Health Care System, they saved my life.

People often wonder what to say to the individuals impacted by cancer. In my opinion, it's showing that you care. That might mean sending kind words or a meal, and finding out how you can be involved in finding a cure for cancer, means the most.

Not the Most Important Thing

Life goes on. I think that’s the beauty of it, tinged perhaps, with a bit of sadness, a bit of hope, but ultimately joy. I find myself standing in a strange place. Two roads diverging in a wood maybe? My scan is coming up this week, and next results. I’ve been feeling really good – and I take it as a reason for great hope. There is a question that has been rolling around through my head, what’s the purpose?

As a Christian I have developed a belief that life situations have purpose, but, as I put that belief to the test, it starts to sound somewhat hollow. I think it goes back to that age old criticism, “if God really loved people, why is the world such an awful place? Why is there pain and suffering?”

There seems to be an acute awareness of pain these days. Over the past two years I’ve followed politics, both Canadian and American. I’ve toyed with the idea of not even bringing it up, but the potential confirmation of Judge Kavanaugh and the sexual assault allegations of women that have come forward have affected me more than I expected it would. Hearing women’s voices in so many different ways has gutted me. It puts my own experience, fear, heartache in stark perspective. I’ve never experienced sexual assault, but I have close friends who have experienced both sexual assault and rape. From what I know, these instances were never reported, and I am gutted by the heartbreak, the tears, and the self-blame. This Supreme Court confirmation is the first time in my life where I have seen a raw delivery of a woman’s story, and a wave of misogyny and disbelief that leaves me confused about purpose in a whole new way.

Why did I get cancer? Why have these women been assaulted? Would a God who really loves me, and who purports to love these women allow such things to happen? What if there is no purpose? What if Dr. Ford’s testimony makes no difference in the long run? What if?

So, maybe purpose is the wrong place to focus. As a parent I would never set out to intentionally harm my child in order to have them learn “something”. That is reprehensible in my mind. The love I feel for my children is all encompassing, and I know that God’s love for us is even beyond that. So far, I have not once been able to prevent them from getting hurt, but when they are hurt I hold them, and comfort them. I tell them that even though things look bad now, we’ll be together and slowly things will get better. The focus is never on the purpose behind their hurt. I can’t imagine our Father being any different.

'

Today my kids are participating in the Terry Fox run at school. Olivia said to me, “You can choose to run for anyone. My friends and I are running for you.” That seems to be as much purpose as I need.  

Happy Thanksgiving. 

What do we say to the god of death?

Not today. In case you're wondering, that's what we say - not today, according to George R.R. Martin and me lately. 

Over the summer I had the opportunity to meet up with a dear friend. Having experienced significant illness and challenges herself she asked me an interesting question. "Do you relate to the term "survivor" as it connects to cancer? Does that feel a bit militant to you?" At first, I didn't really know how to answer - mostly because I didn't yet see myself as a survivor. 

So, what am I waiting for? Someone's permission to be a survivor? Isn't the connotation of the word survivor connected to a struggle? Overcoming in a fight? 

It's taken a bit of time, a bit of processing, but I have an answer now. I'm a survivor, and I've embraced the fight. This cancer crept into my life, quietly, lethally and it damn well tried to kill me. So, yes, I fought back and continue to do so, against anxiety and fear, against seeing the future as dark and fearful. I look it straight in the eye and scream into the void. Not today! 

When it took me a day's worth of energy just to have a shower on my own, I fought by having one. 

When I was first diagnosed I walked around the hospital, but walking was nearly impossible.

I laughed, I visited with friends, I spent time with my kids, I went out with my husband. I fought for the life that was in danger of being stolen. 


I don't know what's going to happen, but make no mistake. I'm going to fight for life, for love, and for all that I hold dear - no matter what my results say. It's ok to fight, it's ok to be militant, and it's important to accept being a survivor. 

So, what do we say to the god of death? Not today. Not today. Not today. 

90 Days

My last set of test results were not what I wanted. They weren't bad results, thank God, just really not what I wanted. 

I'm not a great wait-er. I'm the one who goes and buys my kids Christmas gifts, and I can barely wait until Christmas to give them. I want to charge in the house with the Amazon boxes (God Bless Amazon), and let the kids rip into them right there. But - I know - then there would be nothing for Christmas, and Christmas is special - and the waiting is just as important as Christmas morning itself. 

So, when the Dr. said - the tumor has shrunk, but we still see activity and we'll have to wait three months to confirm what it is with another scan...my first thought was, hell. I'm going to be living in a special kind of cancer purgatory. The scan in 90 days can go two ways, one is for the tumor to either shrink further, or stay the same size.  If that's the case, I'm on Remission Road, and I can maybe start building a "new" normal - whatever that is, it will likely require counselling. But, if there is growth, we start what could be a long road that ultimately ends in further treatments, more waiting, several procedures, and a stark recognition that things are somewhat more serious. My Dr. did say to me that in the majority of the cases he has seen, the tumors usually don't grow. Which was nice of him to say - but I've found that things aren't necessarily easier. 

I'm about in the middle of the 90 days. So far it has been both better and worse than I expected. Some days I am a strong, hopeful survivor where nothing is going to get to me, and others I am quiet, serious, withdrawn and sad - searching for something, anything that will tell me, you're going to be alright. For example, there's a medical paper posted online that talks about PET scans, Deauville Scores, and SUVs. I've read it probably 172 times. Why? Because it gives me a bit of hope? Because I'm crazy? The jury's still out. 

So, what to do in the waiting? Well...I'm trying out a few things. I try to put the medical paper's down, try to put my phone away, and try to go out side to sit in the sunshine. I try to kiss my kids (when I can catch them), and give out hugs and treats as often as possible. I putter around, drive places and pretend that everything is "normal". I try to laugh and listen, to read and think. To cry when it comes, and accept joy as a part of the little things. To remember that the waiting is important, even when I can't control the outcome, when I don't know the outcome. 

To wait. To hope. Always to hope.

When Death Looks You Bang In The Eye

I'm in a strange place. I finished my six cycles of chemo in March, after which I had a PET scan and my Dr. told me I had a "complete response" - which I was later told is like going into remission. After that, I participated in an eight week drug trial. Tomorrow I will be having another PET scan, and hearing results on Wednesday. After that I'm...done? free? all of this on track to be a distant memory, yet I find myself conflicted, frightened, and a bit emotionally unstable. Weird right? 

Shouldn't I be celebrating finally being free of anything cancer related? Shouldn't I be eager to rush ahead and grab life and just forget it all? Yet, over the last 8 months, looking back, I find myself inextricably altered. My life will never be the same. Of course, there are positives...I look at life, and living without a disease holding me back, as so precious. I am overwhelmed by a sense that each moment really is something unique and important, something that I'll never get back, except tucked away as memory. I have to figure out how to harness it all, and it builds to an energy, an excitement for life, and a private vow that I will live differently, in love, generosity and grace.

But then, there is fear. Tucked away a constant niggling doubt. It's one that knows the statistics, the numbers, the odds, the chances. Being exposed to cancer, and people with cancer also exposes you to those whose treatment isn't successful. It looms as something that might "come back" in the future. It sprinkles a bit of grief into every happy moment, a choke in the back of the throat when something special happens, a sense of "unfair" in looking when seeing my chances being wrapped up in two years, five years, ten years. 

So, where am I? Well...it has occurred to me that there is no single one of us, whether the stats are obvious or not, that has a "future" beyond our next breath. It's sobering, gut wrenching, but...freeing also? I may not be able to escape these next words sounding like a cliche, but I need to live every moment. To not take things for granted. To treasure each moment by moment. To live in the light of life and death - this precious walk, step by step. 

Bald Faced Beauty

Do you want to know what my first thought was after it finally settled in that I had cancer? I said, (I hope not out loud, but I can't be sure) So, I'm going to be one of those women - those bald women, and the thought of it sank my stomach like a stone. Now, I'm not known in any way for my hair, but that mess of weird, fine, directionally challenged, daily exercise in frustration on my head was mine - and in my opinion it hid a multitude of flaws. It was almost like I feared losing my hair more than the cancer itself.

At first, knowing it would start coming out - I cut it and cried, then in anger I hacked off a bunch more, and when the inevitable fist fulls began pulling out I gritted my teeth, threw up my fist at the question "What is beauty?" and I shaved it off. That was several months ago now, and though it took a while, avoiding mirrors initially, then finally allowing myself to be surprised by my own reflection for days at a time - something strange has happened. I've come to the place where I don't mind my bald head (even if I still sometimes roll my eyes at it), and I can actually appreciate how my head helps cool me off, it's not a weird shape, I can laugh at myself when I have the automatic thought gee, it's been a while since you had a haircut and even in the right light it's kind of pretty.

So, what is beauty? Haha - I don't know. But I know that us bald headed girls are strong, that we don't let a roomful of perfect hair pull us over with envy, that we can be generous in the face of the awkward overwhelming compassion that comes in the eyes of our sisters with hair, and that we can define a place in society, in love and in beauty that means something more, something just a bit deeper.

What Makes Brave?

When I was little, one of our favorite things to do was watch movies. Old, new, it didn't matter - and my favorite, of course, were the heroes. The characters facing all manner of trials, who had to be brave and strong and who would inevitably overcome whatever it was they were facing - and emerge triumphant by the time the credits had a chance to roll. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what classified people as "brave," an individual who looked terror, anger, injustice in the face, and with a certainty felt to their core, were able to be triumphant. 

Bravery though, seems to be a little more elusive. I've often thought before that people going through difficult circumstances must also magically become brave, and maybe they do - but the reality is, I've found that I have not. It's more the case that given any other option than face it, the Lymphoma, the chemo, the sick days, and on and on, make no mistake - I likely would have chosen anything else. 

So, what is bravery? Is it acceptance? Perhaps. Day by day I accept a little more of where I am, and what I'm going through and it gives me hope that I will be able to see things through to a good place. 

Is it circumstantial? Definitely. Though when I think back on all the moments in my life that required bravery, all were situations that really had only one way out, and the type of bravery required was very situation specific. Under the knife in the delivery room, standing up for what I thought was right - and losing my job, being a Mama, and now cancer are only a few examples. But, in each one there isn't an "out", there isn't an easier path, the only way through it is to look it bang in the eye. 

Is it "living it" scared? That may well be. I can attest to the truth there. Lymphoma is known to have good outcomes...and I'm still afraid. In that fear I have no choice but to move forward. To trust that God holds my outcome, my life - beginning and end, no matter what the doctors say. That today, tomorrow, and the future don't belong to me - but to God's good purposes.     

Is it defined by the people around me? Yes. It's here I know for certain where bravery lives and breathes and is grown. It's in the hugs, and the shared tears, the text messages and cards, the phone calls and the emails. It's people reminding me, "you're strong", "you're brave", and "I'm praying for you" that really, truly tip the balance in the favor of brave. 

So, thank you. All of you.

You make me brave. 

Everyday Miracles

Miracles don't always look like we expect them to look. Of course, I'm not going to stand here and claim that God doesn't send instant, life changing miracles our way - because I would be flooded with examples otherwise, but I think more my argument is - that God is really working miracles all the time, well before we know that we need them - sending them in ways we don't expect.

For example - During chemo I am given a drug called Doxorubicin. Contained in this drug is organic material, a bacteria that is found predominately in soil and decaying vegetation and is delivered using plant virus nano particles. This creates a part of my chemotherapy regimen, is bright red, and is administered by a carefully trained nurse, by hand. The reason it is administered in this way is for my protection. The nurse was telling Brad and I on Friday that if this particular chemical in any way spilled onto my skin, or into surrounding tissues, not only would it immediately kill those tissues but, before it did, would transfer to other cells and kill those as well making it very difficult to stop. The nurse ensures that this drug is administered to my vein only - where it does not kill the vein cells but instead finds and kills the cancer cells.

As I was listening to my nurse describe this process, I was absolutely blown away. It is a MIRACLE. Somewhere along the line, whether this person recognized it or not, I believe that God gave them the idea, ability and smarts in order to not only understand how all of these complicated processes work, but also to get them to work not only on my behalf, but for any person who has lymphoma, effectively working to save lives. Yet, I think - me, and in particular people of faith - tend to get discouraged when we don't "get" a miracle that looks like we think it should look.

Have I prayed for God to heal this lymphoma immediately? Of course. So far though, it hasn't happened like that. In response God said - trust me. Follow me. Let me lead you step by step. It is that image of me taking his hand, and letting him lead me that has informed me in my decisions to work exclusively with the information and recommendations of my Oncologist. In essence God has put Dr. Chua and his team in my life to work as healers. To me this is no less miraculous than God working an immediate miracle in my body. In that, the journey becomes all the more precious. God is still, my strength, my comfort, my song, and my healer - but I get to walk with people, build relationships with people, and ultimately face some fears in my life.

I never took the time to imagine a cancer chemo infusion room. That was far too terrifying for me. But, what I have found is nothing short of the presence of a loving savior walking amongst the chairs and beds in that room. Each time, I see people in all stages of cancer, I was scared that the chemo room would be a place of desperation and sadness, and though it sometimes is - instead I have found a place of light, positivity and hope. A collective of people banded together to fight the same evil disease bravely, with laughter, joy, peace, questions and generosity. A deep concern not for strangers, but for fellow humanity walking the same steps, fighting the same fight. A place where love and life, fear and death all culminate, and as each cancer warrior faces it head on, a place where miracles happen each and every day, and the enduring hope that a miracle will happen for each person there.

For my scientific friends - please forgive my clunky explanation of Doxorubicin. For sources and more info: 

- https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/28952882
- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Streptomyces
- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doxorubicin#Biosynthesis

Someone To Blame...

Have you ever wanted to blame someone for something? To say - the reason I am going through all this pain and agony is because of YOU, or even ME. At least I can point the finger, narrow it down and say THIS, this is what caused all of this and now i'm going to avoid it. 

Just recently I have met a young lady who miraculously has gone through exactly what I am going through right now. It's a blessing for a few reasons, the first because 10 in 100,000 people in my age category are diagnosed with this disease every year. Second because she loves Jesus too, and not only does she get exactly what I'm going through, but she asks really good questions, and makes strong points. 

We were talking about the temptation to blame. The temptation to demand an answer to WHY? Especially why ME? When I'm sitting, and reflecting I can't help but thinking - ok, if there is this huge mass on my chest of cancer how did I not notice? The inevitable answer comes back with hindsight being 20/20. I hear something like you knew. You saw the strange signs, and symptoms. You were just scared to deal with it. Maybe that's true. Can I list my symptoms? Yes, but so can any website talking about Lymphoma. In all honesty - I was feeling off, I thought I had a cold which was affecting my ability to swallow, and something weird going on with the lymph nodes in my thigh - but my doctor assured me they were nothing to be concerned about. So, I can't really blame myself - can I blame someone else? 

I suppose I could blame my doctor, or even both doctors I saw before I was diagnosed who brushed off the symptoms as something less - but it's not really their fault either. I tend to be a hypochondriac, my doctor's first instinct with me is always "calm down Jana"  and she's usually right. 

I could look to blame something I ate, or something I didn't eat. I could blame not getting enough exercise, or maybe getting too much. I could blame my job for being stressful, for relationships that over the past year have fallen apart, failures I've had in dealing with my kids, my sometimes crushing awkwardness in social situations, my quick bite and lashing out in anger in the privacy of my van. Sure - I suppose it could be any of those things - or none of them.

I mean at least we can look at a heavy smoker with lung cancer and say really clever, helpful things like "Well what did you expect?" I mean, that always makes US feel better, or safe or something. 

If I can't find something to blame for this cancer - what am I going to point others toward blaming? 

So, when I'm out and I've forgotten that my hair is gone, and when someone stares at me with a mixture of horror and painful compassion I can almost hear what they are thinking...

"Dear God, what did she do to end up where she is??" I know - I'm not claiming I'm clairvoyant - it's what I was arrogant enough to think to myself. It's then I realize I'm not so different...

And his disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, “It was not that this man sinned, or his parents, but that the works of God might be displayed in him. We must work the works of him while it is day; night is coming, when no one can work. As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. Having said these things; he spit on the ground and made mud with the saliva. Then he anointed ht man’s eyes with mud and said to him, “Go, wash in the pool of Siloam.” (Which means sent). So he went and washed and came back seeing.”

John 9: 2 – 8

There it is. There's nothing to blame, no one to blame - not even me. There's no silver bullet, there's no quick cure. This is just the journey my feet are walking, and the very best part is, I'm not alone. I can walk, my hand in the very hand of God (though sometimes I feel like I'm just hanging on to his robes from behind) and trust him to lead me. Past, present and in to the future. To take off blame, and leave it where it is. There's no point taking it with me. 

Fight Like a Premie

Just before my first round of chemo, we were driving through a parking lot and saw the bumper sticker that has become my mantra, fight like a premie. Being born at 32 weeks, it seemed like I knew something about fighting when one is literally helpless. That's how I feel most of the time - helpless. 

There is nothing that I can do on my own to fight this disease in my body, literally every step, every push back, every blast given to this disease is administered by another dear, specialized person, and when the chemo works in my body - that is the hand of God, healing me one cell at a time. (The cancer cells explode when the chemo hits them - it's the little things folks). 

To truly fight like a premie, there were things I needed to know - 
- Premies can't check statistics
- Premies can't google their symptoms 
- Premies don't know what their odds are
- Premies don't spend time worrying or stressing
- Premies sleep, rest, cuddle 
- Premies like me are BALD 
- Premies don't need to understand what life is all about, they just know it's worth it
- Premies trust. 

Another thing that Premies have, is perspective. They aren't overly puffed up about "who they are" or "what they deserve." Lately, perspective comes frequently, and usually in the form of another soul. A young man, far away from his family, his body not responding to chemo. A little girl, with big eyes in the wig shop, she's only 7 and she's going to lose her beautiful brown hair. A grandmother, no longer able to care for herself, cancer for the fifth time, hoping for the social worker to find her a new home. A father of a baby girl, worried about how to care for his family while he's fighting for his life. A young man, a big smile, announcing that he is going to ring that bell on Saturday morning - his fight coming to a close. My dear friends - perspective. From where I'm sitting, I don't have it that bad, and that is how I am determined to fight, a healthy mixture of trust and perspective. I need to lay in the hands of my Father, and fully trust that he is fighting on my behalf.

Here's to round 2!
Merry Christmas to all! 

For the love of finding Me

Ok...so I can finally kind of say it - I have cancer. Actually, it's easier to say, I have Lymphoma because that's some how not as scary. But, a very clear distinction has developed for me - I am not cancer, nor am I defined by cancer. I am Jana. This is my current physical struggle, but it isn't who I am. Somewhere between staring at my steroid bloated face, imagining what I'm going to look like bald - trying on wig, after wig, after wig, being poked and prodded, and questioned and terrorized with IVs (all for my good of course), Jana is easy to lose sight of. But I've had this gnawing feeling that the me part of me wants to break out and run free.

I am family
I am faith
I walk with Jesus
I am laughter
I am strength
I am tears
I am compassion
I am smiles
I am good food
I am quality friendships
I am humor
I am quiet
I am patient
I am children
I am learning
I am growing
I am gifts
I am time
I am tea
I am talking
I am helping
I am healing
I am passion
I love to love and be loved
I am free


Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him and he will direct your paths (make straight your paths)

Proverbs 3:5-6

The Search for Light, on the Darkest Day of My Life

It's never easy to tell someone that they have cancer.

That's what the thoracic surgeon said.

I wanted to assure him in that moment, it wasn't easy to hear it, either.  The overnight thirteen hour episode that had led up to that point had been the strangest, most frightening, and surreal thing I had ever experienced. The hardest part though, was that he was talking about me, and not someone else who I didn't know real well. Some distant figure or face, that I could feel both sadness and fear for, but ultimately brush aside. 

It was me. 

And what he was telling me, that from this moment on, and for the foreseeable future, your life will be totally and completely on hold, stopped, upside down, something that you can't yet understand. He was right. It hasn't been the same since. 

It was like the darkness had found me. Swirling around and closing in over my head, too far to reach and if it was up to me, on my own I would have drowned, right then and there. But somewhere in the chaos of that moment, as quiet and steady as a deep, unknowable river I knew that Jesus was with me, and in fact he hadn't left me. 

He heard me cry, wail actually, and he was there.
He heard me deny, and get angry, and then cry again. He's heard me each time over the past week and a half, whenever fear, doubt, anxiety crept into my voice, or fell in tears down my cheeks. But I am with you. 
I have heard him speak,

I know he is.
I can see it over and over and over.

The lymph node in my thigh that went crazy, swelled up and got painful, which isn't typical - and is ultimately what sent us to emergency. 

My kind neighbor who came over in the middle of the night, the instant we called to be with the kids.

The very careful doctor who insisted on an x-ray, and the radiologist who pointed out the problem.

The fast acting system that had me in a CT scan that very morning. 

My sweet sisters who I woke at the very break of day, and who jumped into action, collecting our kids, taking them where they needed to go. Providing a home for them, a piece of normalcy that was a huge interruption to their day. Bringing me the things I needed, thinking through what I might need, and anticipating my needs perfectly. 

My parents who were on the road immediately, and on their way to help.

To each Doctor, Nurse, and care provider that I have encountered over the last week and a half. Their ability to give strength and encouragement, and even to help me to laugh. 

My husband who has been at my side for each and every minute, hour and attempt at putting an IV in my arm with his calm, warm and gentle way. 

In these instances and so many more, I see Jesus with me. This is something I am learning today, and will likely know more as the days carry on. God does not promise us a pain-free life, but what he does promise is that he will walk with us through every thing that we encounter good, bad or cancer. That I can tell you, is true. The Doctors believe that I have Lymphoma, and we continue to walk and wait to hear what the next steps will be, and whatever they are I know that they will be with Him. 

Black Olives for Papa

I don't remember a time when John Ganzert wasn't a part of my life. As a child, learning and trying to pick up cues to understand and be a part of the adults in my world, he was always a constant, steady presence. I knew he loved me because though he maybe never said it, his actions never gave me any reason to think otherwise.

Recently the adult in me has been a bit frantic about the fact that perhaps I was losing sight of the Papa I remember as a child, but as I have been sitting and reflecting, I am finding that somewhere knit into the fabric of who I am there are things I know about my Papa.

Like, seven straight lines of Solitaire cards, a rescue from a bus ride gone long, iodine smiles on bleeding knees, and a hand to hold on walks to the park. Story books on his lap, Square dancing and waltzes with Nona, sometimes not even anywhere special, just at home. Polka music in a warm car, Stroke survivors and endless soup lunches, a hearty appetite, golf and curling - now there was something that appealed to me as a little girl, after all Papa and his friends getting together to curl hair seemed perfectly natural. Imagine my surprise when I learned that curling was a sport, and actually had very little to do with hair.

There was never a missed birthday or a missed hug, the big silver shovel Ali and I could sit in together, and walks to the post office. Afternoon naps, giving up control of the remote even during hockey and baseball seasons, and waking very early to turn on Saturday morning cartoons. Countless sleep overs and help scrubbing purple elephants off arms and legs. Cinnamon and sugar pie crust treats, Papa's walks up the mountain, the smell of earth and the summer garden. The way his steps sounded coming up the stairs and feigned surprise when he saw we were visiting coupled with his reliable greeting, “hello, hello!” no matter what he always seemed happy to see us.

We had strange kinship, both of us beating the odds of illness.  It was, in fact, during those difficult days at four years old, I put five black olives on my fingers and showed my parents, declaring “this will make Papa better!” I’m here to tell you that it worked, linked of course with the grace of a loving God, and though faith wasn't something I ever remember being discussed, it was embodied through a lap to sit on, a crossword puzzle to examine, a steady, unchanging, unalterable love expressed through kindness, generosity, stories and laughter.

Perhaps that's a childish view, to gloss over imperfections, but it seems to me that in the fabric that pulls together to make me, those are the strands that bind.

I don't know a world without my Papa, and though I'm not overly keen to, I know that he would take a strong, steady step forward and so shall I. Knowing that he has shaped me in a quiet, consistent way.

One last thing, when you're sad remember, Black Olives for Papa, that will make it better.