Thoughts after first day of chemo

IMG_1542They finally got me into that chair for my first day of chemo today. It wasn’t itself unpleasant. The people who work at Epic Care in Castro Valley are so nice, they of course made it easy. It took a long time, four hours total! I got very tired and could have slept through a lot of it, but my husband and daughter were with me so I pretty much stayed awake. My husband brought me an iced almond latte from Starbucks, which revived me slightly but still left me half in dreamland.

I came home and slept a nice, deep sleep for awhile, and woke up feeling pretty good. No big surprise since the first half of the chemo was devoted to pumping me full of stuff to make me feel good. I got one three-day anti-nausea medicine, one day’s worth of Zofran, another antinausea medicine which I will take in pill form after today, and a good dose of Decadron, a steroid that is supposed to prevent nausea and other side effects of chemo. Both my oncologist and my endocrinologist have told me that decadron is likely to raise my blood sugar, and that even though I have never taken it before, I might have to use insulin while doing chemo. I am sending my blood sugars to my endocrinologist daily so she can keep tabs on it.

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Big scary needles, happily going into IV and not directly into me.

I have been checking my blood sugar since I got home, and while it is higher than normal, it hasn’t become outrageous yet. But I haven’t eaten much either. I don’t really have much of an appetite right now anyway, at least not for healthy foods. The desire factor could cause me to eat all sorts of things that would be all bad, so maybe it’s a good thing I have to keep an eye on my blood sugar.

I am feeling a tiny bit better about the immune suppression factor since the chemo. The chemo tech was telling me it is best not to eat at salad bars, and I said that they told me not to eat salad at all. She said that is really only true when my white blood cell count is down. Now the tricky thing is figuring out when that is true, which is perhaps why there was just a blanket “no” to these things. They don’t make home white blood cell count test strips or anything! I get this checked once a week, and in between times I have no idea what my white blood cells are doing! The tech said that if my white blood cell count was going down I would know because I would start getting really tired. I said, “I think my white blood cell count is going down now.” This was me being funny of course, because I knew it was too early for that to be happening. But it was also me making a point. She said I’d know the difference, so we will wait and see. That would be a pretty clever built-in design mechanism, though, that if you are susceptibe to infection you become too tired to go out and get infected!

I also get spiffy meds to help keep my white blood cell count up. I have a little injection bot of Neulasta plastered to my abdomen right now. Neulasta: as featured in commercials on MSNBC if you are interested! Anyway, they stick it on you, and then after a short while it starts making warning beeps, and then it jabs you with a needle, which inserts a plastic tube in between itself and your lovely self. Then after 27 hours it spends 45 minutes injecting a small about of medication into you through that previously placed tube.

This medication induces your body to make additional white blood cells, which considerably reduces your chance of getting an infection during chemo. Common side effects of Neulasta include bone pain, especially in the lower back and hips, as the bone marrow there is working hard to make the white blood cells and it might gripe about it. Oh, and it can make your spleen explode. I learned that on MSNBC. (Why do they have those commercials for medications! They have to tell you every bad thing that could possibly happen, which leaves no one wanting to use any of these products ever!) But the chemo tech said that she has never heard of that happening to anyone in real life. Just the pain. Take Tylenol, she said. Take Percocet, she said, since I have some left over from my three surgeries, and they will be happy to refill it if needed. Well, we will see. Perhaps I won’t have the side effects, or perhaps they will be bearable.

But the point of this is to alleviate some of my paranoia about immune system deficiency. “Don’t put your fingers in your mouth,” she said. I had no idea how often I actually do that! She eased some of my concern when she made the comment that germs at home are less of a problem because my body already knows how to deal with those, because with four small dogs and one small child, my house is a germ festival I’m sure!

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I don’t think I could ever get used to the idea of going out like this.

I still have some anxiety though. I went out yesterday. I had two doctor’s appointments in two different offices. The receptionist (that I didn’t see thankfully) at one of the offices was coughin and hacking. I seriously thought, she should be wearing a mask. There are medically fragile people who visit doctor’s offices and they don’t need the receptionist making them sick. I got a pedicure, and I went to the grocery store, and in every location there were a number of people coughing and sniffling. It seems to be a second flu season! I came home and said I’m never leaving again! Well, okay, I decided if I have to go to the grocery store I am going early in the morning, when it’s less crowded and when the sick people haven’t been able to drag themselves out of bed yet.

 

One thing I have been missing is church. When my doctor told me to avoid crowded places, I’d asked specifically about church, and he said, “I can’t stop you from living your life, and church is important, but if it was up to me I’d really rather you stayed home.” 😦 😦 😦  Honestly, I have been avoiding it for awhile, first because I was going to have surgery, then because I was recovering from surgery. I actually only got rid of my drains and able to dress presentably last week, and I thought about going last week, and I thought about going this coming week, since my system will be so flush with white blood cell’s from Neulasta, but even a healthy immune system does not keep you from catching a virulent virus. So I am going to stay home until this disease that is making everybody cough has run its course and is out of here. Please someone let me know when flu season is over!

My faith has suffered some without church. I have decided to try to remedy that in part at least with video and audio teachings that are so available on my computer and phone. I have been reading the Bible every single dingle day, but it hasn’t always given me hope. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but early on I started thinking about the phrase, “There are no atheists in foxholes,” which meant that when it came down to putting your life on the line, people would choose to believe.

For me, it’s kind of been the opposite. There is so much on the line, I feel like I can’t afford to make a mistake, either one way or the other. With every fiber of my being I so want to be certain that there is some higher purpose in my life, that there is someone holding my hand while I walk down this path and guiding me to a safe place. For this to all be due to random chance, for me to be completely powerless and without someone greater on my side, that is scary. God hasn’t been exactly chatty and reassuring lately, but I just keep plodding on and when I can’t exactly believe, I continue to hope.

So that is it. Day One of chemotherapy. Day One of twenty weeks. The fun is just beginning.

What if God’s purposes are bigger than your answered prayers?

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The title of this blog was taken from a Facebook status posted by the associate pastor of our church. He and his wife are currently experiencing a heartbreaking situation, as she is pregnant with a baby who is not expected to survive more than a few hours after birth. What is in their minds and hearts? I can only guess. Thousands of prayers are being offered for them, for their baby. What are they expecting to happen? I don’t know.I can only imagine.

But I understand the sentiment of this statement, what if God’s purposes are bigger than your answered prayers? I understand it because when I was diagnosed with breast cancer there were people who wanted to (and did) pray for a miraculous healing. But I knew in my heart that was not to be. I knew that this was a journey I had to take, for whatever reasons, for whatever purposes. Maybe it is for myself, to learn, to grow, to become the person I am supposed to become. Will cancer weaken me, or will it strengthen me? Who knows, I might end up competing in the Tour de France after it’s over! Or I might just be in my own individual spiritual Tour de France. Maybe it will touch other people’s lives. My children’s, for certain. I have seen this already in a few ways, for better, or for worse which will end up better, if you know what I mean. Maybe there is one stranger out there whose life I can end up touching through this. Who knows?

But this I know, we were not promised a rose garden. Bad things happen, even to good people. Life is hard sometimes. God has works to perform in our lives and in our hearts, and like the works of a surgeon or an oncologist, those works are not always pleasant in the moment. But they are for good, for a purpose beyond what others may see.

We can see it, though, if we are honest. We may not understand it, but we can sense it. We know when God is moving in our lives, because even though we may not like what is happening, even when we might sometimes have sleepless nights, tears, even a panic attack, behind even those things there is a sense of peace.

I am afraid of what I am about to do, it is true. I’m not sure where I am going or where I will end up. But behind it all, there really is that sense of peace. I have had a whole lot of practice in resting in that peace while toiling through the deepest, darkest places in this world, as most of you know. This is just another thing.

 

Breast Cancer Journey: Stuff Gets Real

img_1406I had a second surgery this past week. Some of the skin they left after my mastectomy had died and had to be removed. After the surgery was over I posted on Facebook, “I had a great time.” The sad thing is, that was true. It says something about your life when surgery is the highlight of your day. But they numbed me. They sedated me. They all took care of me, including my husband. They made sure I was not in pain and that I did not get lost.

In contrast, that morning I had met with the medical oncologist for the first time. He explained to me that my cancer right now is Stage IIIC. That is the last stage before Stage IV, which is metastatic breast cancer, meaning cancer that has spread to other organs. And they haven’t ruled that out either. The oncologist also commented that I’d had a completely clear mammogram in 2014, and then in October 2015 they find a cancer that turns out to have already advanced to IIIC.  It is lobular cancer, which doctors keep saying is “tricky,” first because it apparently grows in sheets so is hard to find, and also, according to the oncologist, if it returns it returns aggressively. Therefore, we are going to have to use the biggest guns available: a total of 20 weeks of chemotherapy, followed by probably six weeks of radiation, followed by five years of hormone therapy. And the chemo? It’s not some new, gentle chemo that has been developed in recent years. It’s the stuff that causes you to lose your hair, suffer nausea, mouth sores, bone pain. The worst of it, a combination that includes “the red devil,” will be given for the first eight weeks. I think the following 12 weeks are a little easier. I also get steroids. So I think this means I get to be bald and bloated, although ultimately chemo generally results in a dramatic weight loss.

It will probably be four weeks until I start the chemo, because I have to heal properly from my surgeries. I also have to have an echocardiogram to make sure my heart is strong enough for chemo, and the PET scan to make sure there isn’t any other cancer hiding anywhere.

So how am I doing? I am going more than a little stir crazy with the recovery from the surgery. I still have a drain, which prevents me from being able to do so many things, including just rolling around in bed at night and wearing a bra.  I remain relatively calm, however. I’ve done only a little online research. It talks in terms of 5-year and 10-year survival rates, and I got a little choked up over that, because I was able to think about how old my grandson would be in five or ten years, and there was so much more of his life I wanted to see. But I spoke to a friend yesterday whose mother in law had Stage III breast cancer, and she just celebrated 20 years cancer free. And that is what I intend to do. I am not looking forward to the treatments ahead, but I got through the surgery and I will get through this. My faith stumbles along, one day at a time, and I am stumbling with it.

I was reading some old journal entries this morning, and I read the one I wrote right after my repeat mammogram, when I started to suspect something might be wrong. I was reading a YA book at the time, Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu, and I wrote a quote from it in my journal: “I’m not going to try to reduce the weight of your burden, but I’m going to help you grow strong enough to carry it.” Yes, that is what I believe. That is what I feel.

I have that faith for my own journey. But if there is an area where I struggle, it is my ability to provide for my family, both financially and emotionally. Why is it so much more difficult to muster faith for that? Nothing new, though. It has always been this way. And yet always, somehow, we have survived. I have been intending for years to write, have two books swirling in my mind and word processing programs, but I have a paralysis because I am afraid that they will amount to nothing. Silly, I know, because in the process what does the outcome really matter? God has given me grace periods in which to pursue this, and has extended them again and again. I pray that what he has given me will not go to waste. Also written in my journal were these words:

“And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the waters of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it,’ when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left…. And he will give rain for the seed with wich you sow the ground, and bread, the produce of the ground, which will be rich and plenteous.” Isaiah 30:20-23

But I noted also the verse right before it: “He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry. As soon as he hears it, he answers you.” This was one of the words my pastor gave me for the journey. He talked about Peter walking on the water, but later elaborated that Jesus had only stopped to allow that because the disciples had been afraid and had called out to him for help.

So, Lord, here I am. I am calling out to you! I am afraid. Be with me. You don’t have to do it all for me, but help me to do it. Set my feet in the right paths, show me the way, and let me walk in it.

Notes from the wilderness

imageHello world. I have left my nest of pillows and blankets on the couch and I am sitting at the kitchen table. It’s kind of cold here, shivery. But it feels a little more human like. I’m getting tired of recovery from surgery. No, a lot tired of it. It’s kind of depressing actually.

And perhaps this is part of why I am where I am spiritually, which is in the Wilderness. There have been times in my life when I can read the Bible, and say amen, when I can find passages that feel like God is speaking right to me and it sets my heart alight. There have been times when I talked to God, and he seems present, and answers. Now I read the Bible and say, “Eh?” I pray and it isn’t necessarily that I feel God isn’t there, but he is sitting on a hard chair across the room and not answering.

Maybe I feel like he doesn’t like me that much.

It has never been my in my thoughts that if God loves you, bad things don’t happen to you. In fact, quite the opposite has been my thought: that if God loves you, he allows into your life the experiences you need to grow and become the person you came to this life to be, and to contribute to the world the special gifts you have to contribute. That is what I believe.

Emotions are a funny thing, however, and especially so for me. I have had so many emotions that have tried to kill me I have learned to bury them, and I have come to have a hard time dealing with them on a surface level. Even now, how do I feel? Honestly, I know I am scared. I am scared to have a PET scan because so far every place they have looked for cancer, they have found it. I have the American Cancer Association figures in my head. Stage III breast cancer has a 72 percent five-year survival rate. Not bad. But if it shows up anywhere else, it would become Stage IV, and that has a 22 percent five year survival rate. Numbers dancing in my head, although as long as the number is greater than zero I intend to be part of the survivors.

And I’m at a loss as to how this happened, and happened so quickly. It’s not as though I never had mammograms!

But I don’t feel afraid, if that makes sense. There are tears that sometimes leak out but I’m not sure where they come from, or where they are going.

Right now I just think life will be better when I get rid of these drains and bandages, when I can get shower and get dressed and leave the house, when I can do things for myself instead of having to ask for help with stupid little things. As long as I am stuck in the house, I think perhaps the rain and storms we have had have been a little bit comforting, but my heart will feel lighter when the sun shines again, and when leaving my nest on the couch doesn’t cause me to shiver.

Life would also be better if I felt a little less alone spiritually, if God was not sitting silent on that hard chair across the room, if I read the Bible, or anything, and felt it speak to me, although truth to tell reading at all has been kind of difficult since surgery. I stopped taking the percocet during the day because the words were muddling themselves up when I tried to read or write, but there still seems to be a bit of a drag in the mental functions. I am just plain tired.

Time, time, time. That is what it will take here. Time to heal. Time to move on. Time.

Tuesday is Michaela’s birthday. I was looking at my calendar the other day trying to figure out when my next doctor’s appointment is. I saw a dot on the 24th and thought, no, I don’t have an appointment that early in the week. I had to open it up in order to see that it is Michaela’s birthday. How could that have ever slipped my mind?

My heart breaks.

Again.

 

 

Breast Cancer Journey: Perhaps I have not taken this seriously enough.

It is eight 15781015_10211421052747677_7308533655132470120_ndays now since my mastectomy. It was a modified radical mastectomy, unilateral, according to what my doctor told me at my one week checkup yesterday. That means that in addition to the breast they took a bunch of lymph glands. They biopsied one during surgery and found cancer in it, so they took a couple more that looked suspicious, and then she said they took ten others, most of which she didn’t think would be a problem. It turns out that cancer was found in every single one of the lymph glands that was removed. Not to state the obvious, but that is not good.

My mind went back to when I had that second mammogram, how I had though absolutely nothing of it, how routine and unimportant it was. Even through biopsy and diagnosis, I took it only kind of seriously. To me, even a diagnosis of breast cancer was a thing you dealt with and put behind you. My mother did that, a simple lumpectomy, no spread to the lymph glands, radiation for a few weeks, and it was done with. I have heard from so many people, breast cancer survivors. You do it and get on with it.

Now, breast cancer has become something that has run so far ahead of me that I can’t see it, and I know that I am going to have to run to catch up with it. It is not a simple fight anymore. It is going to be an all out battle. But it will be a battle.

Next steps: I meet with a medical oncologist (my doctor is a surgical oncologist), probably have a PET scan to see just how far ahead this beast has run, and schedule radiation and likely chemo.

Can’t do anything until I finish healing from this mastectomy, though, and that is my first goal. So the good news, for anybody who may be facing this procedure in the future, is that it was not nearly as painful as I thought it might be. I’d classify it more as discomfort. There are a couple of reasons for this, perhaps. One is that my doctors injected a local anesthetic that was supposed to last up to 72 hours post op. The other is that I have noticed I have a considerable amount of numbness. Not sure what this is due to. My doctor told me, but I think I wasn’t paying that much attention. I also didn’t pay that much attention when she said whether it would be permanent or temporary, because I am sitting here thinking that it can remain forever as long as it remains past the point where it would hurt if it wasn’t there! I have definitely had discomfort, and took percocet for a few days at the beginning, although within a few days I had switched to motrin except at night. But it was not nearly as bad as I’d anticipated.

The really annoying part is the drains. There are two tubes coming out of my body, each collecting liquids of varying shades of cherry and amber in these bulbs that hang by clips from my clothes. A couple of times a day I have to empty them and measure the liquid. It’s not awful, but it is annoying. There are little bandages that surround the holes where the tubes come out of my body, and they do not want to stay put at all. They are always having to be replaced, and this is annoying for me because the whole idea of tubes coming out of my body is very creepy for a germophobe like me. They were still doing their job too well to take them out yesterday, but hopefully within a few days they will be gone, and I will feel like a brand new person! In fact, healing this mastectomy is feeling like such a necessary step. It’s hard to feel like a fighter when you can’t lift anything that weighs more than five pounds, or bend over without feeling like you might break something, and when you are just so doggone tired.

So onward with this healing, which just takes time. And rest I suppose. Then to the battle.

Thank you for your prayers, and I guess I should take a moment to say that my faith doesn’t and never has rested on such things as absence of hardship or instantaneous healing, or answers to any other prayers. It seems pretty obvious to me that there are purposes to this life that require us to step outside our garden of comfort. All things work together for good, one way or the other. Meanwhile, I have been feeling a level of calm through this that amazes even me. So your prayer support is helping. Honestly, I am feeling very tired, like too tired perhaps to prop up a lot of my own faith. So thanks for holding me up with yours.

Thank you everybody. I love you.

Surgery Tomorrow!

15823276_1149299361835724_1780175567423913694_nThis time tomorrow (8:00 a.m.) I will be in surgery. Today is going to be a busy busy day. I have so much just plain cleaning to do, which I left till the last minute so I wouldn’t have to do it over again. I will start with folding the towels, putting the blankies in the dryer, and another load of bedding in the washer. I have instructions to sleep in clean sheets tonight. I am still trying to figure out how to keep my bedding clean, since I sleep with four small dogs, and since they live in my bed during the day as well. I’m a bit of a germphobe, so this is a particular challenge for me. But, anyway.

Next I am going to get my toes done. I have given up the manicures, as much as I loved them, because the time and money are just not going to be available for them. But my toes are difficult, and feet so naturally unattractive, they need help. Plus I have to look at them all the time, spread out on the bed in front of me, as they are now.

This afternoon I have to go get an injection of radioactivity into my lymph glands. I assume this is to make me glow in the dark, you know, just in case the lights go out during surgery.

And at the end of the day, I have to actually try to get to sleep early, because I have to check into the hospital at 6 a.m.!!! Well, at least we should get good parking.

I will admit I am a little nervous, but mostly I am excited to just get this over with finally and move into the next phases. I am not going to lie, that final phase a few months down the road, where I get brand new perky boobs, is a great motivator. I saw a dress today with a low back, and I thought, hey, I might actually be able to wear something like that in the future. Never, ever in my life, even when I was young and before children, could I ever have thought of something like that.

I am finally beginning to see ahead of this thing. I am beginning to look forward to summer, when hopefully all the treatments and surgeries will be over, when I will be cancer free, and healthier than ever. It is beginning to feel a bit like an awakening, that at this point in my life, instead of winding down I will be winding up for a whole new chapter.

Meanwhile, I have a few mountains to climb, and my first steps are in this surgery tomorrow. My husband and my daughter will be going with me to the hospital with me. And when I let go of their hands to go into surgery, you can bet I will be reaching out to grab another hand, one that bids me come, walk on the water, and tells the waves around me, “Peace. Be still.”

I will post again in a few days, to let you know how things are going.

Thanks for your support. Love you all!

Breast Cancer: The Journey Begins

I learnesomeone-needs-youd this week that I have breast cancer. It has only been a couple of days now, and I think there is still a bit of disbelief. Having breastfed five babies from birth through ages one to three, I suffered from some sort of illusion that this would protect me from breast cancer. My mother had it, but I was bottle fed, so I thought I had some extra protection that she hadn’t had.

Because of this illusion, I hadn’t been terribly concerned when after a routine mammogram they called me back in to get a second mammogram and ultrasound. I’d had a friend have that same experience and it had been nothing, so I was completely unconcerned. I had to wait until the next week for the appointment, and in the meantime I didn’t even give it a thought. It wasn’t until I was walking from my car to the clinic that I felt a jolt, that it occurred to me that what I was doing might possibly be a significant moment in my life. After that I couldn’t shake it. I went to the bathroom, which smelled like a hospital bathroom, and I remember thinking how I really like hospitals for some unfathomable reason, and maybe that was a good thing. As I sat waiting for the radiologist to review the new mammograms and then the ultrasounds, I thought about the book I was reading at the time, and how I should remember that (Afterward by Jennifer Mathieu, about two abducted children who were found and came home).

The radiologist came in and told me that there was something significant there. He showed it to me on the ultrasound, and it looked like a storm cloud in my breast. He said that I needed to get a biopsy. I calmly accepted all this. There was still some sort of a disconnect here, but as I walked to my car I found myself feeling choked up, found tears coming to my eyes, completely unattached to any thoughts going on in my mind, just a spontaneous well.

It was another couple of weeks until I had the biopsy. My daughter and her husband work for a theater company, and she was actually acting in one of the shows and it was performance week, so I wanted to be able to help care for my grandson. So the biopsy was put off until the next week, Thanksgiving week. And because it was Thanksgiving week, I had to wait the long holiday weekend before I could get the results.

Early Monday morning I got a call from my doctor’s office asking me to schedule an appointment to come in to talk to her. I knew that meant bad news. She is a busy, busy doctor, and would not schedule an appointment to say, you are okay, just get your yearly mammos. When I got off the phone again I got that inexplicable feeling of being choked up and teary.

The reason I say it is inexplicable is because I don’t think I am afraid. Well, I am. In some ways I am shaking in my boots terrified, but that is more about my ability to take care of my family in the here and now than the c-word itself. Like I said, my mother had breast cancer. I remember when she was diagnosed she told me that her first thought was, “At least I will get to find out what happened to Michaela.” What she actually meant was, “At least I will get to see Michaela,” but she couldn’t say that, because that would be saying that she believed Michaela was dead. But that didn’t happen. She had a lumpectomy and some radiation treatments and it was over. Cancer was gone, and never came back. She died some years later of emphysema instead.

My dad also had cancer. Lung cancer, inoperable because his lungs were too severely damaged from emphysema, so he also had radiation therapy. This was 30 years ago when the word cancer equaled death in my mind, so it surprised me that my dad just went on living and living and living, year after year. His bad lungs left him disabled, but having cancer seemed kind of to assume the importance having crooked teeth, only less noticeable. He also died some years after his diagnosis, of another condition completely unrelated to his lungs or his cancer.

So I’m not so afraid of this C word diagnosis. My mother blazed a trail through this breast cancer, and as I told my doctor, I figure I will just follow her path until someone tells me different.

And yet, there is something else there, that thing that brings spontaneous tears to my eyes. And there is treatment to look forward to, one way or the other. According to my doctor I will have surgery to determine how far the cancer has spread into the breast tissue, because what I have is the “invasive” kind, and they can’t tell this on mammo and ultrasound. I will also have to have a lymph node biopsy to see if it has spread there. I am not a person with a high pain tolerance, and I remember my mother telling me in particular that the lymph node biopsy was the most painful part. So there is that. I also don’t like general anesthesia. Last time I had it I coughed for six weeks afterwards, presumably due to something they did with the breathing tube.

In other words, I am not afraid for my life, but I am a little bit fearful of the journey. Although at the same time, I am maybe in the far back of my mind just a little bit afraid. I am famous for being strong, it seems, having survived my daughter’s kidnapping, not that this is a sign of strength because it’s not as though it’s something you choose to do, like climbing Mt Everest. It’s more like you find yourself on the top of Mt Everest and have to make your way down or die there. You are there, you do it. If I have developed a skill here, it is the ability to deny, distract, and bury my feelings so deep I don’t even recognize them anymore. I think this is probably a character flaw more than strength, but it has certain benefits for survival I guess.

But. God. There is God. In my wandering ways, I wandered back into his arms awhile ago and made the decision to just stay there whether I had all the answers or not. So here I am. The day after I received the diagnosis my pastor called me, and he prayed a prayer for me that just made its place in my heart. He talked about Peter walking on the waters that should have consumed him. I have always identified with Peter. After all, he denied Jesus three times, but Jesus had foreknown this, had told Peter it would happen, had told him that Satan had asked permission to sift him like wheat, but that Jesus had prayed for him, that his faith would not fail, and that once he had turned back, he was to strengthen his brothers. I have always felt that deeply as a call to me in my own denials. But my pastor went on to pray for me, that I would be able to step out and walk on the waters that wanted to consume me.

I knew this would be what I would carry with me on this journey, that whenever I was afraid this is the picture that I would bring to my mind, of me walking on the waters that want to consume me, because God is with me. Jesus will hold my hand when the waters are smooth and clear, and when they are stormy and dark. The song Oceans by Hillsong came to my mind also, on a continuous loop.

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand
And I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

I have always been one to believe that there is a purpose in what happens to us. This morning I was reading in Isaiah, chapter 30, and among other things, the following verses spoke to me.

He will surely be gracious to you at the sound of your cry As soon as he hears it, he answers you. And though the Lord give you the bread of adversity and the water of affliction, yet your Teacher will not hide himself anymore, but your eyes shall see your Teacher. And your ears shall hear a word behind you saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it,’ when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.

They speak to me, because if I have a prayer, it is for me to know the way and walk in it, to do what I have to do, to accomplish what I need to accomplish. There are always so many things in the way of this, and I am so unsure of what the way is. If you want to pray for me, pray please that I find this way and actually walk in it, that my feet follow and my hands do what it is that I need to do, that I am able to sow the seed I have been given. And that I can care for my family while doing all this, please, as in the following verses, “And he will give rain for the seed with which you sow the ground, and bread, the produce of the ground, which will be rich and plenteous.”

So here we are, and off we go. I will check in along the way and let you know how the journey is going. And for those of you who are also going through hard things of any kind, let me share with you my song, Oceans by Hillsong, in this exceptionally beautiful video filmed on the Sea of Galilee.