Health Update: I’m 10 days post op and doing well. Mostly, I sit. I sit in the recliner, on the deck, occasionally on the couch. This is a new thing for me, sitting for long periods of time. I can see why people like it and I’m game for awhile, but as soon as these stupid drains are out of my body, I plan to move a little more. Surgery went well, recovery is going well, and all I had to do was wait on pathology. That came yesterday. Yesterday was a good day. I keep telling myself that. It’s good to know things. It’s good to have a plan. It’s good to know I’m making progress, even when it feels like two steps forward, one step back. But yesterday, it didn’t feel like a good day.
Long story short, pathology was not what I had hoped for. Cancer was found in some lymph nodes which means I’ll have another surgery soon to see just how far this crap has spread. Radiation is now a part of the plan. When, I won’t know until we get these next test results back. I told Houston yesterday I have never once thought cancer would kill me; only that it would make life uncomfortable for awhile. Now, “awhile” looks a little bit longer. I won’t lie, yesterday was hard. Grief. Anger. Sadness. Weariness. All the things a person should feel after getting that kind of news. But just before I went to bed, there was a flicker of hope, a very present peace, and I knew when I woke up this morning things would look and feel better. God is a finisher. His Word tells us that. He starts things and He finishes them. He started something in me and He will finish it. I have no doubt about that. What bugs me sometimes is I want Him to tell me how and when He’s going to finish it. AND, I want Him to cheer me on all along the way. Pats on the back, happy feelings, satisfaction. I’d also prefer comfort and monetary gain, but I’m well aware those aren’t always a part of the plan. What I really want is for God to say, “Well done!” at every turn. The problem with that is I’m not done. I’m still doing. I’m still putting one foot in front of the other. Still putting in the work. Still taking some punches. Still figuring stuff out. One day, I’ll hear Him say it. Until then, I’ll “do” until I’m “done.” In the meantime, it isn’t as if He isn’t encouraging. He says things like, “Keep going.” “Be faithful.” “I am with you.” “I love you.” Those are very good things to hear and they make me want to look at days like yesterday and say it was a good day. So this morning, I got up, put the coffee on, put on actual jeans and a shirt instead of pajamas, put on make-up and earrings, made myself a spinach, sun dried tomatoes, and feta omelette, and went to work. (Please don’t lecture me about still recovering from major surgery - I’m still just sitting here on my deck - and resting is one of the things I “do.”) There are songs to write, books to read (and write), and people to connect with. I may not have the stamina I wish I had right now, but with whatever energy I do have, I’ll sit here and do something. So even if parts of today get a little rough, tomorrow I’ll be able to say, “Yesterday was a good day.”
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I may regret this. Blogging while on strong medication is never recommended but there are a few things I don’t want to forget so I’m taking my chances.
Twenty-four hours ago I was checking into this place and as soon as I get my discharge papers, we are out of here. I knew the time spent here would be short, but good grief, the condition they send you home in is crazy. Tubes, battery packs, breathing tools, and more. Obviously my movement is limited so Perry has his work cut out for him. Drugs are my friend. They are doing their job and for that I am very grateful. I also don’t like how they make me feel (other than pain relief) so I’m hoping to get off of them sooner than later. UNMC has good ice and relatively good food. If you ever find yourself here, order the spinach, tomato, and mozzarella omelette for breakfast, but avoid the turkey sausage. Gross. And drink the cranberry juice, because bladder infections suck. Pathology will be back in 7-10 days, and then I’ll know if more treatment is necessary or if I can just recover from this part and move on to the next phase of reconstruction. Until then, we pray. Fun fact, my entire medical team has been women. Surgeon, plastic surgeon, anesthesiologist, nurses, aides, even my oncologist back home. I am by no means a feminist, but dang, the ladies were out in full force. Good job, girls! I can’t explain it, but I still have moments when I think I am living someone else’s life. As hard as this past 24 hours has been, I actually woke up and had the urge to write. I called Perry and told him to bring my iPad so I could blog while I was still here. I think that’s a good sign. Health update: Since finishing up chemo on April 1st, my energy has steadily increased, and most days, I feel pretty good. My last day at school was Friday. I am so grateful I was able to work throughout treatment and finish up the year by attending Houston’s graduation, Saturday morning. Tomorrow (Monday) morning, I will arrive at the Buffet Cancer Center in Omaha and undergo a bilateral mastectomy. I will also begin the reconstruction process, although some things remain up in the air as far as that is concerned due to the uncertainty regarding pathology and the possible need for radiation. The thought of needing more treatment after surgery isn’t much fun, but I’ve come to terms with the possibility it might be necessary. Whatever the outcome, surgery means I am one step closer to putting this behind me. Whether it takes one, or two, or twenty steps to get there, I will still be one step closer. I’ve been trying to write something meaningful or inspiring tonight, and to be honest, I’ve got nothing. Just a head full of thoughts about tomorrow and a few other random things. So, here ya go.
1. The Boe family is done with high school. It was a great run, but I’m also okay with it being over. 2. I’ve gotten most of my taste back. Things still taste a little bland, but it’s getting better. And coffee tastes like coffee. Hallelujah. 3. Les Miserables is one of the greatest works of art I’ve ever witnessed. A redemption story at it’s finest, with music that moves me nonstop from “look down” to “until tomorrow comes.” 4. I am not getting a boob job. I am having a bilateral mastectomy because I have cancer. Big difference. I laugh at the comments and I’ve made them myself, so I get it and it’s okay. But I’m also grieving who I was and what is happening to my body. 5. Here are the movies that suck me in, every single time they play on TV: Any Harry Potter film, A Few Good Men, Shooter, and Martian. If you haven’t seen them, you’re missing out. 6. I love seeing high school seniors take high school freshmen under their wings. 7. Leo, my sitting cat, has been naughty lately. I won’t go into all the details, but Perry ain’t happy. 8. I am really hoping the hospital I’ll be in has good ice. It matters. 9. While I am dreading surgery on so many levels, I am honestly looking forward to a summer with VERY little on my plate, other than getting well. 10. For too long, the intense fatigue I was experiencing severely limited my creativity and ability to dream and plan. More energy these days means I’m getting a little of my creative swagger back. That feels good. So stay tuned because I believe some cool things are coming soon. Today, we are having a party. My youngest, Houston, will graduate high school on May 15th and today we will celebrate that milestone with family and friends. As I’ve written previously, one of my greatest fears on this cancer journey was missing out on special moments in his senior year. After the Covid high school experience he’s had, any activity or accomplishment is a gift. I just didn’t want to miss any of it. God has been unbelievable gracious to me in that aspect as I’ve been able to be present, even when it was a bit of a struggle to be there. So grateful. When my surgeon said she wanted to schedule my surgery four weeks after my last chemo treatment, which would have been around May 1st, I made it clear that was not going to happen. “Sorry, doc, I’m not available until after graduation day.” She wasn’t too happy with that schedule, but agreed to it as long as she could operate on the Monday morning after graduation. So, that’s the plan. May 17th. I’ll be honest, I’m dreading every minute of this next phase. I just keep telling myself, whatever it takes to get this crap out of my body is fine. It’s not fine, but it’s fine. Graduation day will be recognition for the 169 students in Houston’s class. But today is all about Houston. Let me tell you a little bit about him. Houston came into this world when life was a little dark for me. I’d lost a baby just a few weeks earlier and I wasn’t ready to be pregnant again. God knew better. Houston brought light to my life and has been brightening the world ever since. His smile and laughter is pure joy. He is a dreamer. He is unafraid to try new things. He cares deeply for people and easily celebrates others’ successes. Houston has a lot of words. When he was in 6th grade, I created a blog for him so he could go home from school every day and use up some of those words. I couldn’t handle all the words. I love all the words, but some days, it was a bit too much. The blog helped. In recent years, he’s been able to use his words to broadcast high school sports. He’s really good at it and is thoroughly entertaining. I’m quite certain there will be more words in the future. Houston has accomplished a lot in his 18 years. He’s also made a lot of mistakes along the way. I’m proud of him for all of it. The stuff that has made me stand up and cheer, and the stuff that has kept me up at night, grieving and praying. It’s the latter stuff that has given him an understanding of grace which he pours out on others in ways that humbles me. Houston and I clash a lot. I’m talking knock down, drag out fights. Yelling. Saying things we shouldn’t. Slamming doors. It’s ugly. We both hate it and it makes us sad. But I will say this, as quickly as our fights can go from zero to a hundred, we are equally quick about making our apologies and talking through our issues. So there’s a positive. For some dumb reason, Houston has decided to go to college out of state. I can’t begin to express how much I will miss seeing his face every day. However, he has agreed to FaceTime every morning and every night so I’m sure I’ll be fine. And I told him I’d visit once a month. And I’m sure he’ll want to come home once a month. So really, it’ll be like a really busy senior year of high school, right? Yeah, right... As you can imagine, Houston has had to endure hearing, “Houston, we have a problem,” countless times in his life. But today, it’s only, “Houston, we have a party.” As I type these words, I’m thinking of more people I forgot to send invitations to, more things I could have done around the house, and adding to the list of things Perry needs to get at the store, asap. Regarding the invites, if you’re reading this and if you know Houston, you’re invited whether you got an invitation or not. Seriously, come celebrate with us. When the nacho bar runs out, I’ll open up the pantry and we’ll sit around eating cereal or tuna or canned vegetables. It’s all good. The past few months have changed the way I view days like today. I suppose it has changed how I view every day, but definitely these once in a lifetime moments. Then again, every day is a once in a lifetime moment. Kinda makes me want to throw a party every day. So, here’s to Houston. Huey. Hojoboe4. The baby who completed our family and the young man who is gonna do big things. Watch out, world. Dear friend, You might be surprised to see me address you as such. Friend. To be honest, I’m a little surprised to be referring to you as one, but it seems fitting, and so you are. I never dreamed we would meet and certainly hoped we wouldn’t, but here you are. My companion for the past 10 weeks. And today, I hope we say goodbye forever. Before that happens though, there are a few things I want you to know. When you walked into my life, uninvited, unwelcome, and unknown, I feared you. Over the weeks you’ve hung around, I’ve come to realize you really aren’t that scary. You’re annoying, you’re time-consuming, and you bring with you a host of other acquaintances that make my life pretty miserable some days. I dread our time together and the mess you leave in your wake, but I don’t fear you anymore. I need you to know that. Mostly, I want to thank you. Thank you for giving others a chance to shine. When my people heard you were coming, they rallied. They showed up in the most beautiful ways that continue to bring me to tears, daily. Thank you for angels like Deb and Brenda who stick needles in my chest, hang IV bags, tape ice packs to my feet, and ask me my last name and date of birth 50 times as they usher you into my presence. They do it with joy and compassion and usually a story or two that makes me smile. Thank you for sparing most of my eyelashes and my eyebrows. Some aren’t so lucky that way, and it has been no small thing to look in the mirror every day and still see some of the old me. Thank you for the physical exhaustion and the pain. I’ve always tried to take care of myself, but you’ve demanded I raise the bar and that’s a good thing. If for no other reason, bowel health. Sure took that for granted. Thank you for reminding me what glorious things taste buds are. I can’t wait to pamper them. Thank you for doing your job. I've thought a lot about exactly what it is you are doing to me. The war you are waging, the damage you do, and the death you cause. I have done my best to be grateful for your part in making a way for life, full and productive. Some days, I probably didn't seem grateful, and thought more about what you've stolen. But deep down, I truly am glad you've been here. Thank you for confirming so many things I thought I believed to be true and now know for sure. Here are just a few I’d like to mention. First, the stuff of earth is of no value but it’s okay to fully enjoy life’s blessings. Second, trials don’t mean you aren’t walking in God’s favor or blessing or abundant life; remember, gold is refined by fire. Lastly, God is good all the time. I want you to know your presence has changed me forever. For the better, and for bigger purposes than you. It isn’t as if you’ve been small and insignificant, because you haven’t been. You’re just smaller and more insignificant than what’s coming. I believe that with my whole heart. So, as we sit here together in this chair for the last time, I bid you farewell, chemotherapy. May we never meet again. Love, Gina Health update: I'm 10 days post-chemo treatment #3, and 11 days away from treatment #4. This round was tough. After my second treatment, I heard a lot of "you're half-way done!" to which I could only smile and say, "Yep." I get the positivity, and depending on how I felt that day, I may have even shared your enthusiasm. But that's also a tough thing to hear when you know you have months of surgery, recovery, and more treatment ahead. I am VERY grateful I have tolerated treatment well, in spite of the numerous side effects. There are the effects people can see, and the effects people can't see, which honestly are much tougher to deal with. I am hoping for six weeks of recovery after my final round, then also hoping to fully enjoy Houston's graduation and soccer festivities before heading into the next phase of this journey. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ When 2021 began, my son let me know he was working on his goals for the new year. He wanted to have an even number of 20 things he was working toward, but was still wrestling with exactly what they should be. I said, "Hey, just get cancer, then you really only have one goal!" (remember, dark humor = family coping) While funny at the time, I had no idea how this one thing in my life would be feel so all-consuming. Early on, that meant nearly every day was filled with tests, phone calls, and appointments. Once treatment started, that meant more of the same, but also the added stuff of physical symptoms and the emotional toll. It's a lot. I have always been a high energy person. I have a high capacity to juggle responsibilities well, and thrive when I have multiple plates spinning. Over the years, I have been cautioned, criticized, and occasionally commended for this ability, and I have been made aware of the pitfalls associated with the kind of life I've chosen to live. However, I am also the kind of person that needs a significant amount of time alone, and when I get it, I spend a LOT of time thinking through my roles and responsibilities. So, I will add this; I quit apologizing for the speed at which I do life, long ago. You do you. I'll do me. Enough said. Since closing down a business in 2017, I have been working toward simplifying my life in a few key areas. Whether it was turning 50, or anticipating an empty nest, or just a desire to finally be fully invested in my professional pursuits, I knew it was time to settle into a different speed of life. I put up some speed limit signs in my life over the past few months. For me, that meant getting off the interstate, driving 75, (okay - 80), and trying to hold it back to 55. While there have been days when that felt incredibly slow, I have also enjoyed the more leisurely pace. And then cancer. All of a sudden, it felt like I was driving in a school zone every place I went. Occasionally, it's felt like finding myself behind a school bus that stops and every intersection and railroad crossing. Stop signs everywhere. Roads closed. Many days, it has felt like my life has been reduced to leaving the car in the garage, then sitting on the front porch like my grandpa Herman used to do. Just sitting and watching the world go by. I've been tired before, but never felt fatigue like I've felt the past couple of months. Between rounds 2 and 3, there was a day when I had enough energy for some fleeting thoughts about actually dreaming about the future and making some plans. I decided to make time later in the day to do just that. By the time I sat down to dream, I didn't have the energy to think anymore. So frustrating. I talk to God about it. He keeps saying, "You have one job. Just do your one job and get well." I keep wishing He'd follow up with other statements like, "Here's what's coming next," or "Get ready for this amazing thing" but He doesn't say those things. I do think all of this is preparation for the next season of my life, whatever that is. I thought I knew. Maybe I don't. One of the hardest parts is of all this really is watching other people drive by, drive away, and drive fast and far. I keep telling God I'm missing out on things; opportunities, experiences, adventures. Again, He says, "Just do the one thing I've given you to do. Get well." Me, doing one thing. What a concept. So, if you need me, I'll be over here in the repair shop, waiting on parts, getting a tune-up, a new paint job, and finding out exactly what speed the new me will be capable of driving. It will be a glorious day when I get the keys back and can take her out for a spin. Until then, I think it's time for another nap. Update I would have given had I posted this blog a few days ago when I originally intended to post it, but didn’t: I am currently in the window when I feel pretty good. I’m grateful for these days when my I have more energy and can enjoy some normalcy, which really isn’t normal at all, but I’ll take it. The next round of chemo is looming and I’m dreading it, knowing how I’ll feel for 7-10 days after treatment. But again, I know the symptoms mean the drugs are doing their job, so it’s all good. I was somewhat prepared for the physical toll this would take on my body. I was not prepared for the emotional toll. It’s real and deep and raw. I am trusting there is great purpose in that as well, as if those symptoms mean this journey is doing it’s job on my heart. Update for today! Today is chemo day. Bless these meds. May they defeat the enemy. And may I weather these next days well. I had intended to finish this blog during my treatment. That didn’t happen because I had ice packs on my hands and feet. So, it’s 9:20 p.m. and I’m exhausted. But I’m determined to finally post this thing. Which means, you’re getting brief thoughts about random things. It’ll have to do. I make no promises that this entry will be profound or inspiring, so read at your own risk. 1. I miss my hair. But gaining an extra 20 minutes of sleep every day has definitely been a nice thing. 2. I have been gifted a couple of plants and purchased a few more for my kitchen and living room. Green is a game-changer when you need signs of life around you. 3. One of the best things about growing up in a 4-season state like Nebraska is that you’ve learned to push through certain days because you know different days are coming. 105 degree July afternoons are more tolerable because October days are on the horizon. A ten-day stretch of below-zero temps and a foot of snow, though not fun, are doable when you know there will be a Spring. Those are helpful life lessons on days like today. 4. Best thing my doctor said at my last appointment - Let people help you. Best thing she said today - There is a light at the end of this tunnel. 5. If you don’t follow my cat yet on Instagram, you really should. @leosits I guarantee he’ll bring a little joy to your life. (I told you this list would be random) 6. There have been many days on this journey when it would have been easier to stay in bed. And there have been days when I probably should have stayed in bed and didn’t. I’ll admit sometimes I look back on some days and think I maybe didn’t make the best decision. But, I do think I make the best decision in the moment with the information I have so I’m giving myself grace in that area. The moments of good energy make me feel like I can do anything, so I try. The problem is that energy doesn’t last as long as it used to. The good news is I get a new day tomorrow to make a better decision if I can. 7. I have the most eclectic group of friends who have walked this journey with me. I am blown away by their kindness, humor, and empathy, every, single day. 8. Dear taste buds, when you come back, and I pray you come back soon, I promise to treat you better. 9. I was swapping chemo stories with my friend Joel the other day. We laughed, I cried, he spoke kindness and encouragement. Such a gift. 10. One of my biggest concerns going into this was missing out on some big moments, mostly with my youngest, Houston, as this is his senior year. But as I looked at the calendar, I noticed how all the events I told cancer I wouldn’t miss, will take place on days when I should feel pretty good. I tear up just thinking about it. Those are moments of mercy I do not deserve. Thank you, God. I love a good road trip. Obviously I love family vacations and the occasional girls' weekend away, but I'm also a big fan of going it solo. I love the planning, the anticipation, the packing, the leaving, the arriving, all of it. And no matter how long it takes to get from the point A to point B, I love the hours on the open road. Okay, I love most of the hours on the open road. The hours I don't love are when I've exhausted my podcasts, my audible library, the rare albums I'm able to listen to for pure enjoyment, the time I get to spend writing in my head, and dreaming. Because when those activities are done, I'm left with the hours that get filled with worry, mind-fighting, loneliness, negative self-talk, and feeling sorry for myself. Those are ugly hours. I've noticed over the years, how when I'm driving and somehow get consumed with all those negative, self-absorbed, fear-filled thoughts, I inevitably end up miles down the road, not remembering a single thing about how I got there. I don't remember the sights I've driven by. Whatever places I could have seen and enjoyed and learned from, I've completely missed. I've always hated that feeling. I started this cancer journey as the new year began. I have been given every indication I will end the year cancer-free. The grace of that statement overwhelms me. The planning, anticipation, and starting off on this little 12 month trip has been one of the biggest blessings of my life, truly. Someday I'll write more about that, but I can't tonight because I'm a tad weepy and I can't see the screen if I'm all blurry-eyed. Sometimes I think about the celebration I'm going to have when 2021 becomes 2022, and folks, it's gonna be a party, you can count on that. But I'm realizing it's the getting from point A to point B that will refine me in ways I never wanted. These are the hours on the open road. And some of them are just plain ugly. I made it through the first round of chemo, feeling relatively well. Had the expected nausea, exhaustion, raw mouth, loss of appetite, hair loss, etc. I wasn't prepared for this, but one of great cruelties of this treatment is that one of the true happinesses in my life, coffee, now tastes terrible. I can't tell you how sad this makes me. Anyway, the symptom that got me the most was bone pain. Ugh...it is no fun. It's from the drug I'm taking to boost my bone marrow and keep my blood counts where they need to be. I'm sure there's a better way to explain how it works, but that's my attempt to keep it at level I can understand. It is crazy how you feel good until they try to make you well and then you feel like crap. By day 10 after chemo, I felt pretty good. So thankful for that. Round 2 was last Thursday. Everything about this round was harder. I had all the same symptoms, just all a little tougher to deal with and wasn't sleeping as well. I ended up staying home from work a little more this week, but managed a full day on Wednesday. This morning I went in for blood work and ended up getting IV meds and fluids, because every person I saw said, "Do you feel okay?" Apparently I looked a little weary. So, I got the IV, slept the afternoon away, and tonight, I feel pretty good. Over the past few days, I've realized I am on the open road. I've planned, I've anticipated, I've packed, and I've left point A. There have been many, MANY hours of joy so far. I will recount as many as I can at some point, but again...weepy...can't see... But some of these hours are the ugly ones. The hours I can't stand to listen to a book or podcast or music. When I can't read or write or even move. When my thoughts get the best of me. When the only thing I have the strength to do, and probably the worst thing I can do, is look at my phone and watch the world go by as I am reminded of all the things I can't do or am missing out on. See the tailspin happening? It ain't pretty. When Harrison and I left California last November for the long drive home after American Idol, I called my friend Lisa and said, "Here's where we are now. We'll be somewhere in Utah around midnight. Can you find me a hotel somewhere so we can get some sleep and finish the trip tomorrow?" I just couldn't deal with one more detail. She got back to me with three options in the general area we expected to be in at that point in the trip. A couple weeks ago we were recalling the events of that night when she said, "I couldn't wait for you to wake up the next morning and see how beautiful it was all around you. I knew you'd be driving through some incredible places." And she was right. It was stunning. Some of the most beautiful creation I've ever seen. In the midst of our long drive home, when we might be tempted to give in to disappointment and sadness, she knew there would be beauty. I've learned a lot from Lisa about having that perspective. I have no doubt I am driving through beautiful country these days. I hope I can keep seeing the beauty. I don't want to get miles down the road, not remembering how I got there and realize I've missed things I could have enjoyed or learned from. I know there will be stretches of highway when I am fighting discouragement and loneliness and the reality of just how long the drive is going to be. I've been trying to approach the tougher moments the same ways I try to keep my thoughts in check when I am literally driving on the open road. I pray out loud. I write in my head. I drink coffee. Again, the sadness over my coffee. I open the windows. Yeah, it's been a little cold for that. I dream out loud. I thank God for the good things happening in other people's lives. Trust me, those things don't come easy in those moments. But I do know it's a choice. So I'm trying to choose wisely. Anything to get my heart and mind back on things that are true, noble, right, pure, and lovely. I'm also trying to be okay with the moments when it feels like midnight and I can't handle one more detail. When I just need to go to bed and trust I will wake up and see the beauty. We dream. We make plans. We work hard. We knock on doors and walk through the ones that open. Sometimes, everything falls in place and it is a beautiful thing. Other times, everything falls apart and we’re left staring at something we never intended to see. Last August, my son, Harrison, auditioned for American Idol. The whole process looked different this year because of Covid, so the first few rounds were conducted online. The first day took several hours. One producer, then another, then another. Questions. Interviews. One song, then another, and yet another. More questions. More interviews. Uploading videos. Another producer. By the time the first audition day was done, he was pretty sure he was moving on to the next round, whatever that was to look like. A few weeks later, we found out he was indeed moving on, which meant they would be flying him and a guest (that would be me) to California in November to audition before the judges. Yes, those judges. They would fly us out, put us up in a resort for up to 2 weeks, where he would audition, conduct interviews, and be available for any additional filming. Covid restrictions were enforced at every step. We tested negative before we left, and were scheduled to test immediately upon arrival in California on a Friday afternoon, then quarantine until our results came in. Harrison’s interviews and audition were scheduled to begin Monday morning. Everything went according to plan. Until it didn’t. We were watching a movie in our hotel room late Sunday night when Harrison checked his email on his phone. He then reached down to his computer, paused the movie, turned to me and said, “Mom, I’m positive.” Within the hour, we were told he was being released from the show and they were making arrangements to get us to a hotel in Los Angeles the next morning where we would quarantine for two weeks. That’s when this mama said, “Uh, heck no. We will be getting in a car tomorrow morning and driving the 24 hours home, thank you very much.” The Idol staff (who were kind and compassionate and awesome at every turn) made it clear that was not possible unless my results came back negative. Thankfully, about 15 minutes later, my results arrived in an email. Negative. We would drive home the next day. (A few days later, Perry, Houston and I all tested positive.) After learning his Idol adventure was over, Harrison and I stayed up late talking about everything that had transpired. We were obviously very sad and a bit angry, but mostly we were shocked at how everything had fallen apart just hours from what should have been an amazing experience, regardless of what the outcome would have been. We had a plan. And things didn’t go according to plan. The next morning we got up early and headed toward LAX to return our rental car and pick up a different car for the long drive home. On our way, I asked Harrison if there was anything he wanted to do in California before we headed east. “No,” he said. “I just want to get home.” He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. ”We’re pretty close to the ocean. Do you want to stop?” I asked. He kept his eyes closed and replied, “I didn’t come here to see the ocean.” I kept driving south toward the airport. About 45 minutes later, I saw an exit sign. I don’t remember what town the sign was directing us to; I only saw the word “beach.” I took the exit. ”What are you doing?” Harrison asked. ”We’re going to see the ocean.” I don’t know why, but I felt strongly it would be good for him. Maybe I thought I needed it too. Ten minutes later, we parked the car and walked about 100 yards to the beach. For the next 20 minutes or so, we walked the beach a little, but mostly we just stood on the sand and stared out over the water. We stood there feeling small, weary, discouraged, and with a whole lot of questions. And yet, we also stood there in awe, overwhelmed by power and beauty, and certain we were looking at the handiwork of God. We didn’t have answers, explanations, or any clue what the new plan was, but somehow we knew it was going to be okay. Sometimes you just need an ocean in front of you. About two and a half years ago, I put myself on a three-year plan. It was mostly about some professional goals I had, but it was very personal too. I dreamed, I made plans, and I worked hard. For just over two years, everything was going according to plan. Until it wasn’t. Last fall, the company I had contracted with to write musicals for the past ten years, went bankrupt. I learned of this development just days before winning a Dove award for one of the projects I wrote for the company. Talk about the highs and lows of the music business. A couple months later, my cancer diagnosis. None of those developments were a part of my three-year plan. I came into 2021 thinking I would see the completion of my plan. I didn’t come here to see the ocean. And yet, here I stand, feeling small, weary, discouraged, and with a whole lot of questions. But I also stand here in awe, overwhelmed by power and beauty, and certain I am looking at the handiwork of God. I don’t have answers or explanations, but it’s okay, because I’m pretty sure I am looking at something more beautiful than I could have ever planned on my own. The ocean has always been a bit scary to me. It’s massive. Powerful. Uncontrollable. I can’t see to the other side. I’m well aware it could take me under in a split second unless I have something strong enough to keep me afloat. But because I do have something to keep me afloat, I can look at the ocean in all its fury and say, “It is well with my soul.” The new season of American Idol starts next week. I’ll watch with mixed emotions. I might recognize names and faces and locations. But mostly, I’ll remember when it all fell apart and I watched my kid stand on the beach and look out over the water, as I thought to myself, “God, we didn’t come here to see the ocean, but WOW. You did good. And I still believe there are better things to come.” Brief update for those who want one: Round 1 chemo - done. A dear friend told me, chemo isn’t for sissies. No it is not. Three more to go before surgery. Last lymph node biopsy was negative. Felt like the first positive turn I’ve had on this road. Thank you, Jesus.
__________________________________________________________________ One of the things I became keenly aware of early on in this journey, is how the manner in which people approach me is largely based on their own experience with cancer. It is fascinating. As people have shared their own stories with me, I have been struck by the wide range of experiences and emotions felt as cancer has left its mark. Some can barely speak about it without falling apart as they remember a loved one’s ravaged body. Others joyfully cheer me on to victory, certain I’ll have the same quick, virtually painless battle their friend fought, as they conquered the enemy. Many simply say, “I’ve been there, too. Hang in there.” My family tends to face difficult circumstances with a certain level of humor, dark humor at times. I would blog about some of these conversations, which I find hilarious, but I’m afraid one of you would have all of us committed. However, I knew when I returned to work, the students I work with didn’t need me cracking jokes. Some of them had lost parents, grandparents, or friends to cancer. Those are likely the ones who came up to me after class with tears in their eyes, saying, “I’m so sorry.” Others, however, have parents in the medical field and seem to take a more clinical perspective. Those students come to me after class, hands squarely on their hips, and say matter-of-factly, “I heard about your diagnosis. What’s the plan?” Either way, I clearly see their hearts, and I love it. I love them. When I had the opportunity to address a couple classes about what things would look like in the days ahead, I let them know my door was always open to have any conversations they might want to have. I wanted them to know I wasn’t afraid of any questions or comments, and to come to me if they needed a safe place to talk about their own experiences with cancer. They have been awesome. But what they haven’t offered is advice. Bless them. There has been no shortage of very well intentioned people offering their insight into my current situation. Now, before you think I’m about to unleash on those who’ve thrown unsolicited advice my way, trust me, I’m not. And here’s why. Over the past few years, I have found myself learning one consistent lesson which has led to this conclusion: most people truly are doing the best they can with the best of intentions. I really do believe that. I have to. And wow, is it helpful on this journey. As my blogs sometimes do, this one now leads me to write about one of my favorite subjects - food. I’m a huge Food Network fan. Especially those shows where contestants are basically competing for a prize that might lead to their own show. Over and over again, they are asked to present food to the judges that incorporates the one thing that makes them unique - their POV. Point of view. A lot of people can make amazing food. But to cook up something amazing that comes with a personal slant or story - well, that’s what sets the network superstar apart from the great cooks. If you consider those chefs who’ve made the jump from contestant to TV star, you’ll see how they have simply communicated their vision to the world and the world likes what they see, so, we go along for the ride, looking at food from the host’s point of view. The value of what they have to offer isn’t simply in the food they make; it’s in the way they view food that draws us in. And as we tag along on their adventure, we find enjoyment and answers and comfort and beauty in seeing things from their perspective. I have to believe in the power and value of a person’s point of view. It is one of the reasons why I write songs. There are millions of songs about love or hope or struggle so it isn't as if the world needs another song. But someone in the world might need a song about one of those subjects from my perspective, because they're in a similar circumstance but can't quite put their thoughts about their own experience together. It’s the same reason I blog. Okay, there are multiple reasons why, but one of the main reasons is because I believe with my whole heart that if one person is at a place in their life where they need someone to put voice to their thoughts, then my ramblings might be worth something. The problem comes when we are confronted with someone’s point of view and we take offense, for whatever reason. We might feel attacked. We might feel insulted. We might feel manipulated or just plain annoyed. And when I say “we”, I mean “we”, because I’ve felt all those things at one time or another. But that little life lesson I’ve been learning the past few years? The one about people doing the best they can and with the best of intentions? Yeah, THAT has made all the difference for me. Trust me, I’m a work in progress on all this. Some days, I respond well in these situations. Other days, like if you casually tell me my situation is exactly like your Great Aunt Nelly’s little lumpectomy-didn’t need chemo-she’s 104 now-you’ll be fine too, I will likely squint my eyes, cock my head to the right, smile, nod, then walk away thinking, ”Nope, not the same. Idiot.” and then repeatedly say to myself, “Breathe in Jesus, breathe out love.” As I said, I’m a work in progress. There’s a word that gets thrown around a lot but doesn’t always stick - grace. Seems like grace would be a game-changer in trying to not take offense. I'm trying harder to assume the best of people and have a whole lot of grace on hand for the moments they disappoint me. It isn't easy. The moments I've learned the most about grace are when it has been extended to me from others, and when I’ve needed it most and haven’t received it. Both experiences have been humbling, teachable moments. Obviously, I don’t mind letting you know how it feels in this valley. I also don’t mind hearing what your view of my valley looks like. From where you stand, you might know the best way for me to get out of here. You might not. Either way, there's no harm in hearing your point of view. I might take your advice. I might not. I’ll try to not be offended by your advice if you try to not be offended by my choice to take it or not. Seems fair to me. If we can do that, even when life's roads take us through the darkest of valleys, I think we can help each other find enjoyment and comfort and answers and beauty. And maybe we can all learn to appreciate each other’s view from wherever we happen to be standing. |
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