Dear Esther, here's what nobody told you last year.
2014 is going to be one heck of a year.
Adulthood, and all the decisions that come with it.
Change is going to be the theme.
You'll be hired at your first full time job, and adjust to the 12 hour shifts.
You'll take on leadership of a small group; discovering more about what kind of leader you are.
Planning, packing, and dreaming of Rosebud will take up most of your limited spare time.
You'll write over 40 songs in the span of 12 months.
Everything goes according to plan, until June 26th, when your biopsy results come back positive.
Cancer.
Your carefully constructed world will crack, and you'll cry more than you thought was possible.
Crutches will become your mode of transportation from June till December, with a small break in September and October.
Life will become dictated by doctor's appointments.
Dreams you didn't dare give a voice will come true, when two very special people arrange for you to record a single, and put together a fundraiser to debut your music.
You'll find and form deep, meaningful relationships, old and new.
Surgery and recovery are going to take everything and more than what you've got.
Recovery is hardest.
Esther, 2014 is the toughest thing you've done so far.
I can't see what 2015 holds. I can't write a letter about what's going to happen, though I wish I could.
What I do know is that life is never going to be the same.
In one week I start recording my album, Unquenchable Hope.
I still plan on going to Rosebud.
Other that that? I have no idea.
I'm okay with not knowing, because even in uncertainty, I can trust the One who has walked beside me, carried me when strength failed, is constant, when I don't understand.
Jesus, I can walk on water when I'm with You, I can run on rolling waves
I can dance on water with I'm with You, I will not be afraid.
I never could have done it without my faith, the constant love and sacrifices of my family, or the love and support of my friends.
I couldn't have done 2014 with out you.
Wednesday 31 December 2014
Wednesday 3 December 2014
Battle Scars: The Magnitude of a New Normal
Honestly, I wasn't ready for the fight.
I wasn't ready for the scars.
I wasn't ready for the pain.
I wasn't ready to be cancer free.
There are stretch marks along my thigh, lines whispering alongside the scar. Nobody warned me how much the scar would ache, and how diligent I need to be with massaging it, so that it doesn't form adhesions. (Scar tissue binding with the tissue underneath, causing problems like restricted movement. I had to find that out from my chiropractor.)
November was a struggle. The meds I was on were causing sleep disruption, anxiety, and depression. Fun cocktail.
In the midst of that, I'm officially cancer free, so yay?
Somewhere inside me I'm happy. Mostly I'm weary; cancer being gone doesn't mean I'm okay.
Two more surgeries are already on the horizon, the official term is de-bulking the graft. Or, as my doc puts it,
"To make your foot sexier."
In other news, the radiologist wants me to see a chemotherapist, to "have a conversation about further treatment."
Interpretation: "It would ease my mind if you had chemo."
Part of me understands his concern. We finally received the full diagnosis, now that they've had a chance to dissect the tumor.
Grade 3, Stage 3. (The highest you can go is 4)
Interpretation: The grade level correlates with how aggressive the tumor is.
The stage indicates how far the cancer has spread. In my case, they caught it right before it metastasized. The combination of a high grade tumor, and stage three cancer prompted the visit with the radiologist, and brought up the prospect of chemo.
Yeah, who cares that the tumor is gone, and the margins were good? Since there is the slight chance of dormant cancer cells in my body, you want to pump me full of toxic chemicals to be safe?
Bull. I'm not doing it.
There's enough to deal with, adjusting to the information from today. Highlights:
Two (!) more surgeries.
Bi-yearly MRIs and CT scans to make sure I continue to stay cancer free
I'll be wearing a compression garment the rest of my life. (A fancy term for a special sock that keeps my foot from swelling, because surprise, surprise, radiation killed the pumps that naturally take care of excessive blood!)
This is my new normal.
Saturday 8 November 2014
There And Back Again
Home.
What a sweet word, and an even better place.
I was gone eleven days. An unexpected journey, to be sure.
The past six months have been layers of the unexpected; heartbreaking, devastating at times, and exhilarating, joyful, magnificent at others.
Nothing can prepare you for the process.
Sunday, October 19. I'm struggling with anxiety and fear. The hazy thing in the future called "surgery" is only a day away. I go to church, and am overwhelmed by peace, which grows throughout the day, ending in a sweet, blissful, joy filled time with my Gospel Community Group.
Monday, October 20, 5:15 am. I'm dressed, ready with my hospital bag. The sky is still dark, and the air is crisp as I walk to the car. Ha, walk. Inside my head a list of "this is the last time" plays. The last time I'll walk on my real foot. The next time I'll put weight on it, I'll have battle scars. Peace accompanies me as I walk into Admitting. Mom and I wait, and I make her laugh. The minutes tick by, and at 6:30 my name is called. I'm given a bracelet with my information on it, and directions for where to go next.
Pre-Op. A small curtained room. I change into a hospital gown, and crack more jokes. More waiting; a nurse comes and has me verify what the surgery is. My surgeon (Dr. H) comes in and draws on my leg and foot. It's funny seeing him in regular clothes; I've only ever seen him in scrubs.
He delivers the first morsel of good news.
"We've decided to take the full graft from your thigh. We won't have to touch your shoulder."
He leaves, and mom and I exchanged relived smiles. One less scar to heal. I had been nervous about the shoulder being the one of donor sites.
Time slips away, mom and I say goodbye, the nurse leads me past the point of no return.
It's time for the IV. I'm cold, making my veins small, and hard to find. The nurse tries three times, and finally finds one.
It's time. The hands on the clock have moved to 7:30. I'm wheeled into the OR.
A host of doctors and nurses greet me, verify my identity, and why I'm there. I'm transferred to the operating table, the anesthesiologist places a mask over my face and tells me to breathe.
I slip into nothingness.
4:30, Post Op Recovery room.
Two nurses are talking to me. My mind is cloudy. Hysteria sets in. I'm crying, not understanding why, not able to control my emotions or my trembling body. I'm told to take deep breaths, but it's the last thing I want to do. I don't know how, but I finally calm down. I'm given morphine for pain.
Flap checks are every 20 minutes. They press the graft to make sure it's taking, and listen with a Doppler (similar to an ultrasound) to make sure the venous and arterial veins are functioning properly.
Second flap check. Something in the nurse's face changes.
"We need someone from plastics to come." She tells her colleague.
"Is something wrong?" I ask. She doesn't answer.
Ten minutes go by. Pain blooms in my foot, and I know something is wrong. I'm given more morphine, which doesn't help.
The plastics intern walks in. He checks the flap, and listens.
"We've lost the venous." The pain is throbbing now. My foot feels tight and heavy.
"What does that mean?"
"The venous takes blood back to the heart. It looks like a vein has burst, which is causing swelling."
That would explain why it feels like my foot is going to explode.
He turns to my nurse. "We need to get her back to the OR."
"How soon?"
"Not longer than 30 minutes."
He leaves, and I watch the clock. Pain is rising, and panic bubbling up as well. Ten agonizing minutes crawl by. More morphine. No relief. All I want is to get back to the OR and be put to sleep. Anything to escape. I question the nurse about how much longer.
"Soon," she assures me. I'm trying not to scream, but moan instead.
I don't know how I get through the next fifteen minutes, but at last, at 5:30, I'm wheeled to the OR. There are no jokes this time. It takes longer for the anesthetic to work, because of my anxiety. For the second time, the world goes dark. There is no more pain.
7:30. I feel heavy, sluggish, dull. I don't want to wake up. Slowly, the tendrils of fog in my brain begin clearing. I hold my breath during the first flap check. The nurse smiles at me. All good.
20 minutes later, another successful check. They let my family in. After the third check, I'm declared stable, and ready to be moved to a room.
The hospital bed is rolled down corridors, and through a set of heavy doors into GH5; my home for the next week.
That's the second piece of good news: The surgery went so well, that they've cut my initial two week stay down to seven days.
I'm too groggy to care. My voice is low and scratchy, my throat sore from having breathing tubes in for ten hours.
I'm not allowed water yet, and I discover the wonder of ice chips melting on my tongue.
Thinking is as hard as walking waist deep through molasses. R brings flowers, and jokes that I sound like a bass. My family assures me the surgery was a success.
Flap checks are every hour, and continue to be positive. I can't stay awake anymore.
Tuesday, the 21st. Rough night, after being woken up every hour. The doctors make their rounds between 6 and 6:30 am, and I am a special case, so everyone comes to examine me. (the most I had at one time was ten)
My body is full of morphine and anesthetic. All I want to do is sleep. I'm aware of visitors throughout the day, but it takes all I have to keep my eyes open. When I do, I see more flowers, brightening up the stark room. I have no appetite.
I am totally tubular. An oxygen line to my nose, two IV lines, two drains coming out of my leg, a catheter. This isn't me. I barely feel human. I surrender to sleep.
Third blessing: I am alone. Having a room to yourself is rare, and I enjoy the semi-peace.
Wednesday, the 22nd. I'm off morphine, but the haze, everything is a haze. It's hard to form thoughts. The doctors are getting worried that I still haven't eaten anything.
My first big shock comes today; they change my thigh bandage for the first time. The nurse starts at my hip, and slowly peels the bandage off. The stitches keep going, and going, and going, ending at my knee. That would explain why it feels so tight and sore. It's going to be a beast of a battle scar.
S and L visit, bringing more flowers. No more oxygen tube.
Thursday, the 23rd. Breakthrough. It's amazing how having your hair washed can make you feel human. It's the first time I've felt human since the surgery, and glimmers of myself are appearing.
I am able to consume some rice. Small victories.
Friday, 24th. Zombie land again. I guess being human has worn me out. I sleep, and am pleased to discover I have minimal pain.
Saturday, the 25th. Eventful day. The morning nurse greets me with the news I'm changing rooms. I feel lucid, and eat breakfast! The IV and catheter are taken out. Today I feel like Esther. I'm moved to a wheelchair for the first time. M visits, and we watch a movie. L and S come again. It's nice to joke with them, and things are returning to normal.
Sunday, the 26th. New room. Now I have a roommate. I'm sensing a pattern; after the events of yesterday I am exhausted. B comes in the morning, C comes in the afternoon, and A comes in the evening. She catches me just as I'm about to have a good cry, and makes me laugh instead. Friends are wonderful.
Monday, the 27th. I'm excited. I get to go home today! I didn't sleep well, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, and eating real food. I still don't have much of an appetite, and am existing on fruit juice and rice. Dr H and his team come to take down the foot dressing.
I was warned, all week, that my foot wouldn't look like a foot.
The dressing comes off without problem, and I see flap for the first time. The graft site is a tear drop shape, outlined with stiches and staples. The round part of the teardrop is where my arch used to be, tapering up the side of my ankle. Now I understand why the donor site is so big; the graft is two pieces of skin sewn together. It looks like someone took an air pump and inflated the right side of the foot. I feel like Frankenstien, with a Frankenfoot. It's a shock.
Nothing can prepare me for the next half hour; the equivalent of hell breaking loose.
I still have two drains, one for the donor site, and for the graft. Dr H removes the flap drain, and I scream. Pain tingles up my leg. The drain site has become infected.
I don't clearly remember what happens next. A team assembles, and I'm told to breathe. I haven't needed painkillers all week, so I'm unprepared for the procedure. In order to clean out the infection, they have to open the flap in two places, and three staples have to come out. Mom is at my side, breathing with me. My ipod is playing, I try to focus on the distraction, but I have to scream again. I feel tears fighting to be free. I'm scared that if I start crying, I'll lose control. They're irrigating the infected area with saline. I can't hold back any longer, I start sobbing. The pain is too intense to handle silently. I'm past caring what anyone thinks, and start praying in tongues. I couldn't tell you how long it goes on.
Finally, they are done. I'm still crying, from pain, shock, relief that the ordeal is over.
Every time I think I'm done, I start again. Mid afternoon I am able to rest. I'm emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted, so when supper comes I eat without nausea.
Four people from GCG walk in as I'm finishing up. B, L, D, and S (you know who you are :)
I've missed them, missed GCG, and the community. It's the refreshing I need. We laugh, talk, and they pray for me. Inklings of peace begin to stir up in me.
After they leave, my new roommate are I chat a bit. We've both faced cancer, so we share parts of our stories. I have a bandage change, which drives me to tears again. I've never experienced so much pain in one day.
Tuesday, the 28th. Slow day. A soon as the doctors walk in to change the dressing, I start crying, dreading the pain ahead. I'm lucid today, and manage to eat all three meals. M has brought me books, so I dive into one. R comes to visit that night, filling me in on details about how rehearsals are going for Fiddler on the Roof, the musical I'm performing in at the end of November.
Wednesday, the 29th. L and S visit, bringing me Boon Burger ice cream. They take me for a small outing down to the lobby. It's nice to get out, and I can't wait to go home tomorrow.
Thursday, the 30th. The infection is gone! But the dressing changes still drive me to tears. Because they opened the flap, they have to pack the open sites with a special gauze. After a few false starts, I'm home. Sleep overwhelms me for a few hours. I have visitors throughout the day.
There truly is no place like home.
What a sweet word, and an even better place.
I was gone eleven days. An unexpected journey, to be sure.
The past six months have been layers of the unexpected; heartbreaking, devastating at times, and exhilarating, joyful, magnificent at others.
Nothing can prepare you for the process.
Sunday, October 19. I'm struggling with anxiety and fear. The hazy thing in the future called "surgery" is only a day away. I go to church, and am overwhelmed by peace, which grows throughout the day, ending in a sweet, blissful, joy filled time with my Gospel Community Group.
Monday, October 20, 5:15 am. I'm dressed, ready with my hospital bag. The sky is still dark, and the air is crisp as I walk to the car. Ha, walk. Inside my head a list of "this is the last time" plays. The last time I'll walk on my real foot. The next time I'll put weight on it, I'll have battle scars. Peace accompanies me as I walk into Admitting. Mom and I wait, and I make her laugh. The minutes tick by, and at 6:30 my name is called. I'm given a bracelet with my information on it, and directions for where to go next.
Pre-Op. A small curtained room. I change into a hospital gown, and crack more jokes. More waiting; a nurse comes and has me verify what the surgery is. My surgeon (Dr. H) comes in and draws on my leg and foot. It's funny seeing him in regular clothes; I've only ever seen him in scrubs.
He delivers the first morsel of good news.
"We've decided to take the full graft from your thigh. We won't have to touch your shoulder."
He leaves, and mom and I exchanged relived smiles. One less scar to heal. I had been nervous about the shoulder being the one of donor sites.
Time slips away, mom and I say goodbye, the nurse leads me past the point of no return.
It's time for the IV. I'm cold, making my veins small, and hard to find. The nurse tries three times, and finally finds one.
It's time. The hands on the clock have moved to 7:30. I'm wheeled into the OR.
A host of doctors and nurses greet me, verify my identity, and why I'm there. I'm transferred to the operating table, the anesthesiologist places a mask over my face and tells me to breathe.
I slip into nothingness.
4:30, Post Op Recovery room.
Two nurses are talking to me. My mind is cloudy. Hysteria sets in. I'm crying, not understanding why, not able to control my emotions or my trembling body. I'm told to take deep breaths, but it's the last thing I want to do. I don't know how, but I finally calm down. I'm given morphine for pain.
Flap checks are every 20 minutes. They press the graft to make sure it's taking, and listen with a Doppler (similar to an ultrasound) to make sure the venous and arterial veins are functioning properly.
Second flap check. Something in the nurse's face changes.
"We need someone from plastics to come." She tells her colleague.
"Is something wrong?" I ask. She doesn't answer.
Ten minutes go by. Pain blooms in my foot, and I know something is wrong. I'm given more morphine, which doesn't help.
The plastics intern walks in. He checks the flap, and listens.
"We've lost the venous." The pain is throbbing now. My foot feels tight and heavy.
"What does that mean?"
"The venous takes blood back to the heart. It looks like a vein has burst, which is causing swelling."
That would explain why it feels like my foot is going to explode.
He turns to my nurse. "We need to get her back to the OR."
"How soon?"
"Not longer than 30 minutes."
He leaves, and I watch the clock. Pain is rising, and panic bubbling up as well. Ten agonizing minutes crawl by. More morphine. No relief. All I want is to get back to the OR and be put to sleep. Anything to escape. I question the nurse about how much longer.
"Soon," she assures me. I'm trying not to scream, but moan instead.
I don't know how I get through the next fifteen minutes, but at last, at 5:30, I'm wheeled to the OR. There are no jokes this time. It takes longer for the anesthetic to work, because of my anxiety. For the second time, the world goes dark. There is no more pain.
7:30. I feel heavy, sluggish, dull. I don't want to wake up. Slowly, the tendrils of fog in my brain begin clearing. I hold my breath during the first flap check. The nurse smiles at me. All good.
20 minutes later, another successful check. They let my family in. After the third check, I'm declared stable, and ready to be moved to a room.
The hospital bed is rolled down corridors, and through a set of heavy doors into GH5; my home for the next week.
That's the second piece of good news: The surgery went so well, that they've cut my initial two week stay down to seven days.
I'm too groggy to care. My voice is low and scratchy, my throat sore from having breathing tubes in for ten hours.
I'm not allowed water yet, and I discover the wonder of ice chips melting on my tongue.
Thinking is as hard as walking waist deep through molasses. R brings flowers, and jokes that I sound like a bass. My family assures me the surgery was a success.
Flap checks are every hour, and continue to be positive. I can't stay awake anymore.
Tuesday, the 21st. Rough night, after being woken up every hour. The doctors make their rounds between 6 and 6:30 am, and I am a special case, so everyone comes to examine me. (the most I had at one time was ten)
My body is full of morphine and anesthetic. All I want to do is sleep. I'm aware of visitors throughout the day, but it takes all I have to keep my eyes open. When I do, I see more flowers, brightening up the stark room. I have no appetite.
I am totally tubular. An oxygen line to my nose, two IV lines, two drains coming out of my leg, a catheter. This isn't me. I barely feel human. I surrender to sleep.
Third blessing: I am alone. Having a room to yourself is rare, and I enjoy the semi-peace.
Wednesday, the 22nd. I'm off morphine, but the haze, everything is a haze. It's hard to form thoughts. The doctors are getting worried that I still haven't eaten anything.
My first big shock comes today; they change my thigh bandage for the first time. The nurse starts at my hip, and slowly peels the bandage off. The stitches keep going, and going, and going, ending at my knee. That would explain why it feels so tight and sore. It's going to be a beast of a battle scar.
S and L visit, bringing more flowers. No more oxygen tube.
Thursday, the 23rd. Breakthrough. It's amazing how having your hair washed can make you feel human. It's the first time I've felt human since the surgery, and glimmers of myself are appearing.
I am able to consume some rice. Small victories.
Friday, 24th. Zombie land again. I guess being human has worn me out. I sleep, and am pleased to discover I have minimal pain.
Saturday, the 25th. Eventful day. The morning nurse greets me with the news I'm changing rooms. I feel lucid, and eat breakfast! The IV and catheter are taken out. Today I feel like Esther. I'm moved to a wheelchair for the first time. M visits, and we watch a movie. L and S come again. It's nice to joke with them, and things are returning to normal.
Sunday, the 26th. New room. Now I have a roommate. I'm sensing a pattern; after the events of yesterday I am exhausted. B comes in the morning, C comes in the afternoon, and A comes in the evening. She catches me just as I'm about to have a good cry, and makes me laugh instead. Friends are wonderful.
Monday, the 27th. I'm excited. I get to go home today! I didn't sleep well, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, and eating real food. I still don't have much of an appetite, and am existing on fruit juice and rice. Dr H and his team come to take down the foot dressing.
I was warned, all week, that my foot wouldn't look like a foot.
The dressing comes off without problem, and I see flap for the first time. The graft site is a tear drop shape, outlined with stiches and staples. The round part of the teardrop is where my arch used to be, tapering up the side of my ankle. Now I understand why the donor site is so big; the graft is two pieces of skin sewn together. It looks like someone took an air pump and inflated the right side of the foot. I feel like Frankenstien, with a Frankenfoot. It's a shock.
Nothing can prepare me for the next half hour; the equivalent of hell breaking loose.
I still have two drains, one for the donor site, and for the graft. Dr H removes the flap drain, and I scream. Pain tingles up my leg. The drain site has become infected.
I don't clearly remember what happens next. A team assembles, and I'm told to breathe. I haven't needed painkillers all week, so I'm unprepared for the procedure. In order to clean out the infection, they have to open the flap in two places, and three staples have to come out. Mom is at my side, breathing with me. My ipod is playing, I try to focus on the distraction, but I have to scream again. I feel tears fighting to be free. I'm scared that if I start crying, I'll lose control. They're irrigating the infected area with saline. I can't hold back any longer, I start sobbing. The pain is too intense to handle silently. I'm past caring what anyone thinks, and start praying in tongues. I couldn't tell you how long it goes on.
Finally, they are done. I'm still crying, from pain, shock, relief that the ordeal is over.
Every time I think I'm done, I start again. Mid afternoon I am able to rest. I'm emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted, so when supper comes I eat without nausea.
Four people from GCG walk in as I'm finishing up. B, L, D, and S (you know who you are :)
I've missed them, missed GCG, and the community. It's the refreshing I need. We laugh, talk, and they pray for me. Inklings of peace begin to stir up in me.
After they leave, my new roommate are I chat a bit. We've both faced cancer, so we share parts of our stories. I have a bandage change, which drives me to tears again. I've never experienced so much pain in one day.
Tuesday, the 28th. Slow day. A soon as the doctors walk in to change the dressing, I start crying, dreading the pain ahead. I'm lucid today, and manage to eat all three meals. M has brought me books, so I dive into one. R comes to visit that night, filling me in on details about how rehearsals are going for Fiddler on the Roof, the musical I'm performing in at the end of November.
Wednesday, the 29th. L and S visit, bringing me Boon Burger ice cream. They take me for a small outing down to the lobby. It's nice to get out, and I can't wait to go home tomorrow.
Thursday, the 30th. The infection is gone! But the dressing changes still drive me to tears. Because they opened the flap, they have to pack the open sites with a special gauze. After a few false starts, I'm home. Sleep overwhelms me for a few hours. I have visitors throughout the day.
There truly is no place like home.
Friday 17 October 2014
There Will Be Scars: When God Says Wait
Skin is amazing. It is flexible, yet strong enough to hold us together. It tells us if we're hot or cold, if we're experiencing pain or pleasure.
It tells stories. A tan says that you've been out in the sun. A blush betrays embarrassment or attraction (often at the same time)
Scars tell stories as well.
We don't choose them, but they serve as reminders of what you've gone through. Scars can be a badge of honor. "You should have seen the other guy!"
Sometimes, God allows us to become scarred.
I have more details about the surgery, which sparked all these thoughts about scars.
The operation will take eight hours, (originally it was six) and it's been moved up a day; October 20!
The hospital stay is double what we thought it would be. Now the doctor is saying 10-14 days.
I found out about the muscle, nerve and skin grafts. I'll have a five inch scar on my right shoulder blade. (News to me!) My foot will look . . . interesting.
I'm adjusting to the information. It's a process; tears are involved. I'm walking towards being okay.
Now, onto the other thing that's been occupying the space between my ears lately:
Healing.
A few Sundays ago, I was prayed over, several times. It was awesome! I love being in God's presence, and I want to be perfectly clear that I fully believe in, and receive His healing.
Over the course of my cancer journey, I have been prayed over, anointed, and cancer rebuked.
Sometimes, God says no.
Sometimes, God says wait.
Sometimes, He wants our trust.
I don't know what His timeline is. I know He has the power to heal, and He might, maybe the night before the surgery! I don't know.
Right now, the lump is still in my foot. I am in pain every day, the biting-your-pillow kind. I have prayed that it would go away.
It hasn't.
I trust God, and I see His hand EVERYWHERE, all over my life!
I'm struggling physically, but in lucid moments, I wouldn't change what has happened.
My faith is not dependent on when I get healed.
Please, by all means pray for me. Pray with me! But, if my journey is the long dark road, I'm going to need hugs and visits, too.
Much love,
Esther
It tells stories. A tan says that you've been out in the sun. A blush betrays embarrassment or attraction (often at the same time)
Scars tell stories as well.
We don't choose them, but they serve as reminders of what you've gone through. Scars can be a badge of honor. "You should have seen the other guy!"
Sometimes, God allows us to become scarred.
I have more details about the surgery, which sparked all these thoughts about scars.
The operation will take eight hours, (originally it was six) and it's been moved up a day; October 20!
The hospital stay is double what we thought it would be. Now the doctor is saying 10-14 days.
I found out about the muscle, nerve and skin grafts. I'll have a five inch scar on my right shoulder blade. (News to me!) My foot will look . . . interesting.
I'm adjusting to the information. It's a process; tears are involved. I'm walking towards being okay.
Now, onto the other thing that's been occupying the space between my ears lately:
Healing.
A few Sundays ago, I was prayed over, several times. It was awesome! I love being in God's presence, and I want to be perfectly clear that I fully believe in, and receive His healing.
Over the course of my cancer journey, I have been prayed over, anointed, and cancer rebuked.
Sometimes, God says no.
Sometimes, God says wait.
Sometimes, He wants our trust.
I don't know what His timeline is. I know He has the power to heal, and He might, maybe the night before the surgery! I don't know.
Right now, the lump is still in my foot. I am in pain every day, the biting-your-pillow kind. I have prayed that it would go away.
It hasn't.
I trust God, and I see His hand EVERYWHERE, all over my life!
I'm struggling physically, but in lucid moments, I wouldn't change what has happened.
My faith is not dependent on when I get healed.
Please, by all means pray for me. Pray with me! But, if my journey is the long dark road, I'm going to need hugs and visits, too.
Much love,
Esther
Thursday 2 October 2014
Follow (Lessons Learned from Swing Dancing)
I have been wanting to take swing lessons for five years. I can finally cross it off my bucket list! It was one of those now-or-never situations. I don't know what recovery looks like, so I will dance while I can!
I've taken dance lessons in the past, and I seem to do well in lively, upbeat genres. Yes, I can tap :) (I tried hip-hop, but told I was too bouncy)
In swing, there are two positions, lead and follow.
My sister and I have done swing dancing, but since I was teaching her, I've always lead.
Until now.
Follow.
It's an accurate way to sum up the season I'm in. I love it when God takes a situation (like dancing) and gently uses it to make a point.
My instructor is great at giving feedback to make me a better dancer. One thing that keeps coming up it that I'm too tense, which leads to not executing turns correctly.
"Loosen up," he suggested. I did, and wow, it made a marked difference!
Another thing I'm struggling with is anticipating what the lead is going to do, and trying to control what's going on.
The thing that makes swing fun is the unpredictability. Once you learn the basic patterns, there's no limit to the combinations. The follow's job is to simply respond to what the lead is doing.
Last week, I has a breakthrough at the end of class.
Relaxed, I let go of trying, and effortlessly danced, turned, and trusted. How marvelous it is to follow!
I'm in a similar place with God. The future is a mystery. He has revealed small pieces of what He wants me doing, He's swung me way out of my comfort zone and told me to trust, and follow.
I don't know the details. That is okay.
I have decided to follow Jesus, no turning back.
Much love,
Esther
I've taken dance lessons in the past, and I seem to do well in lively, upbeat genres. Yes, I can tap :) (I tried hip-hop, but told I was too bouncy)
In swing, there are two positions, lead and follow.
My sister and I have done swing dancing, but since I was teaching her, I've always lead.
Until now.
Follow.
It's an accurate way to sum up the season I'm in. I love it when God takes a situation (like dancing) and gently uses it to make a point.
My instructor is great at giving feedback to make me a better dancer. One thing that keeps coming up it that I'm too tense, which leads to not executing turns correctly.
"Loosen up," he suggested. I did, and wow, it made a marked difference!
Another thing I'm struggling with is anticipating what the lead is going to do, and trying to control what's going on.
The thing that makes swing fun is the unpredictability. Once you learn the basic patterns, there's no limit to the combinations. The follow's job is to simply respond to what the lead is doing.
Last week, I has a breakthrough at the end of class.
Relaxed, I let go of trying, and effortlessly danced, turned, and trusted. How marvelous it is to follow!
I'm in a similar place with God. The future is a mystery. He has revealed small pieces of what He wants me doing, He's swung me way out of my comfort zone and told me to trust, and follow.
I don't know the details. That is okay.
I have decided to follow Jesus, no turning back.
Much love,
Esther
Saturday 20 September 2014
Thanking God for the Fleas
I recently finished reading The Hiding Place, and it wrecked me.
For those unfamiliar with the story, The Hiding Place is Corrie Ten Boom's autobiography.
Her family ran a watch shop in Holland during world war two, which doubled as the headquarters for a smuggling operation: Jews.
A hiding place was built into Corrie's room. At one point they were hiding seven Jews, then one night the house was raided.
The Ten Booms were arrested.
Corrie and her sister Betsy were sent to a concentration camp.
Through God's orchestration, they are able to smuggle in a Bible.
There is so much to learn from their story, but here's what I want to focus on today:
The first day in the concentration camp, Betsy and Corrie were praying. Betsy thanked God for the camp, the deplorable state of the beds and toilets, the abusive guards, and the ever present fleas. Corrie had agreed with Betsy's prayer, but she couldn't bring herself to thank God for the fleas, until a few months later. Betsy was so sick and frail, that she was put in the knitting ward-where prisoners who couldn't do hard physical labor were sent to knit socks and sweaters for soldiers.
Betsy was a gifted knitter, and every day, finished her quota by noon. She spent the rest of the day reading the Bible to the other prisoners, and praying with them. Corrie discovered that the reason Betsy was allowed, is because she and the rest of the inmates had fleas. The soldiers were frightened of getting fleas, so they stayed out of the prisoner's room.
That knocked me over. I deeply admire these women for having the unshakeable faith to praise God for the worst of trials, and that God can redeem any situation for His glory.
It reminded me of Acts 16:25, when Paul and Silas were in jail, singing hymns when an earthquake struck. The guard was about to commit suicide because he thought that the prisoners escaped, but Paul assured him that was not the case. The jailer ended up getting baptized, along with his whole family!
I've challenged myself to try to emulate the attitude I found in these two stories, using James 1:2-4 as my encouragement. "Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing."
So if you hear me say "Thank-you Jesus for the fleas," you'll understand.
love,
Esther
For those unfamiliar with the story, The Hiding Place is Corrie Ten Boom's autobiography.
Her family ran a watch shop in Holland during world war two, which doubled as the headquarters for a smuggling operation: Jews.
A hiding place was built into Corrie's room. At one point they were hiding seven Jews, then one night the house was raided.
The Ten Booms were arrested.
Corrie and her sister Betsy were sent to a concentration camp.
Through God's orchestration, they are able to smuggle in a Bible.
There is so much to learn from their story, but here's what I want to focus on today:
The first day in the concentration camp, Betsy and Corrie were praying. Betsy thanked God for the camp, the deplorable state of the beds and toilets, the abusive guards, and the ever present fleas. Corrie had agreed with Betsy's prayer, but she couldn't bring herself to thank God for the fleas, until a few months later. Betsy was so sick and frail, that she was put in the knitting ward-where prisoners who couldn't do hard physical labor were sent to knit socks and sweaters for soldiers.
Betsy was a gifted knitter, and every day, finished her quota by noon. She spent the rest of the day reading the Bible to the other prisoners, and praying with them. Corrie discovered that the reason Betsy was allowed, is because she and the rest of the inmates had fleas. The soldiers were frightened of getting fleas, so they stayed out of the prisoner's room.
That knocked me over. I deeply admire these women for having the unshakeable faith to praise God for the worst of trials, and that God can redeem any situation for His glory.
It reminded me of Acts 16:25, when Paul and Silas were in jail, singing hymns when an earthquake struck. The guard was about to commit suicide because he thought that the prisoners escaped, but Paul assured him that was not the case. The jailer ended up getting baptized, along with his whole family!
I've challenged myself to try to emulate the attitude I found in these two stories, using James 1:2-4 as my encouragement. "Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing."
So if you hear me say "Thank-you Jesus for the fleas," you'll understand.
love,
Esther
Thursday 11 September 2014
The Beginning of the End
I've haven't been posting lately, because life has been insanely crazy and awesome. Preparing and performing for the fundraiser, practicing for and recording the single. (!!!!)
A long-anticipated trip to North Dakota to visit a dear friend.
Radiation has ended.
I have a surgery date.
I broke.
Physically and emotionally, something in me broke last week.
Radiation ended August 25, leaving me worse off than I could have imagined. There is a radiation burn the size of a saucer around the tumor. I was in constant pain, and couldn't walk. I returned to crying multiple times a day.
I'm terrified.
The operation is much later than we expected.
Last Wednesday we received the details. On Tuesday, October 21, at 5:30 am I will check into Cancer Care. The surgery starts at 7:30am, and lasts until 1:30pm. I'm not allowed any food 24 hours after surgery, in case of complications that will need a second operation.
When they said bed rest, I didn't realize what it meant. I'm on absolute bed rest for 7 days. My left foot can't be moved or lowered at all.
There's a myriad of unknowns. The surgeon doesn't know how many nerves will be removed until he actually looks inside my foot. Full sensory abilities won't return until a year after surgery.
There will be major scarring.
I was very blessed to have almost no side effects during radiation, but now my foot is falling apart.
The tumor is dead, and angry. (I won't get into all the gory details, because believe me, they are)
God is good. He gave me an incredible Labor day weekend with two immensely Godly women. The original purpose was just a visit, then Y got engaged a few days before we went down! L and I are bridesmaids, so we took the opportunity to find dresses.
I learned more about the layers of awesomeness that make up who L and Y are. (That could take up two separate posts!)
God deepened our friendship and knit our hearts closer. He's so amazing at bringing people from three different backgrounds and ages, yet we share so many deep heart things.
He broke my heart that weekend, sharpening my mercy in a way I've never felt. He's tuning my heart to echo His.
That's just a spoonful of the thoughts swirling in the soup of my mind.
Stay tuned, cause I have more posts I'm in the process of writing!
Love,
Esther
A long-anticipated trip to North Dakota to visit a dear friend.
Radiation has ended.
I have a surgery date.
I broke.
Physically and emotionally, something in me broke last week.
Radiation ended August 25, leaving me worse off than I could have imagined. There is a radiation burn the size of a saucer around the tumor. I was in constant pain, and couldn't walk. I returned to crying multiple times a day.
I'm terrified.
The operation is much later than we expected.
Last Wednesday we received the details. On Tuesday, October 21, at 5:30 am I will check into Cancer Care. The surgery starts at 7:30am, and lasts until 1:30pm. I'm not allowed any food 24 hours after surgery, in case of complications that will need a second operation.
When they said bed rest, I didn't realize what it meant. I'm on absolute bed rest for 7 days. My left foot can't be moved or lowered at all.
There's a myriad of unknowns. The surgeon doesn't know how many nerves will be removed until he actually looks inside my foot. Full sensory abilities won't return until a year after surgery.
There will be major scarring.
I was very blessed to have almost no side effects during radiation, but now my foot is falling apart.
The tumor is dead, and angry. (I won't get into all the gory details, because believe me, they are)
God is good. He gave me an incredible Labor day weekend with two immensely Godly women. The original purpose was just a visit, then Y got engaged a few days before we went down! L and I are bridesmaids, so we took the opportunity to find dresses.
I learned more about the layers of awesomeness that make up who L and Y are. (That could take up two separate posts!)
God deepened our friendship and knit our hearts closer. He's so amazing at bringing people from three different backgrounds and ages, yet we share so many deep heart things.
He broke my heart that weekend, sharpening my mercy in a way I've never felt. He's tuning my heart to echo His.
That's just a spoonful of the thoughts swirling in the soup of my mind.
Stay tuned, cause I have more posts I'm in the process of writing!
Love,
Esther
Wednesday 27 August 2014
In Wonder
I am in awe.
It's very hard to induce speechlessness in me, but after the fundraiser on August 20th, I couldn't even talk about it for a few days, I was so overwhelmed. (In the best way possible)
When I received the cancer diagnosis precisely two months ago, I never would have imagined the journey God was launching me on.
God is a mystery. I like it that way. I have questions that aren't answered, but I trust Him implicitly.
In moments of doubt or uncertainty, I can cling to the memories and pictures from the fundraiser.
Our family was overflowed with support and love from all circles of our life. People from work, church, theater, and our neighborhood came.
It was a privilege to be vulnerable and share my heart, my music, with our community. It was deeply encouraging to have people respond enthusiastically to my debut. All the CDs of the single sold out! The night ended in a standing ovation, which blew me away.
If only could have been God.
I woke up the morning of the fundraiser with no voice. Trying not to panic, I prayed, warmed up, and drank lots of lemon tea with honey. Considering how well the night went, I know God gave me a voice. His presence was all over how the event came together, down to the smallest details, like a full house. If any more people has come, if would have become too crowded.
God is so good at giving us what we need, even unspoken desires. I wanted to have pictures of the event, but I didn't have the time to contact anyone. Well, a family friend came, and photographed the whole night! I'm really excited to see how they turn out.
The underlying theme of the past few months has been that God is good! Sometimes it takes energy and a re configuring of our expectations, but His goodness is undeniable.
Here's the long awaited song: https://estherkoepnick.bandcamp.com/releases
Make my day by sharing and downloading it!
Love,
Esther
It's very hard to induce speechlessness in me, but after the fundraiser on August 20th, I couldn't even talk about it for a few days, I was so overwhelmed. (In the best way possible)
When I received the cancer diagnosis precisely two months ago, I never would have imagined the journey God was launching me on.
God is a mystery. I like it that way. I have questions that aren't answered, but I trust Him implicitly.
In moments of doubt or uncertainty, I can cling to the memories and pictures from the fundraiser.
Our family was overflowed with support and love from all circles of our life. People from work, church, theater, and our neighborhood came.
It was a privilege to be vulnerable and share my heart, my music, with our community. It was deeply encouraging to have people respond enthusiastically to my debut. All the CDs of the single sold out! The night ended in a standing ovation, which blew me away.
If only could have been God.
I woke up the morning of the fundraiser with no voice. Trying not to panic, I prayed, warmed up, and drank lots of lemon tea with honey. Considering how well the night went, I know God gave me a voice. His presence was all over how the event came together, down to the smallest details, like a full house. If any more people has come, if would have become too crowded.
God is so good at giving us what we need, even unspoken desires. I wanted to have pictures of the event, but I didn't have the time to contact anyone. Well, a family friend came, and photographed the whole night! I'm really excited to see how they turn out.
The underlying theme of the past few months has been that God is good! Sometimes it takes energy and a re configuring of our expectations, but His goodness is undeniable.
Here's the long awaited song: https://estherkoepnick.bandcamp.com/releases
Make my day by sharing and downloading it!
Love,
Esther
Tuesday 29 July 2014
By the Pricking of My Thumbs. . . (something exciting this way comes!)
I have an insane life. It probably doesn't surprise you.
Bad crazy: Cancer sucks. Good crazy:
I am now a recording artist!
I am recording a single.
As in, a song that I wrote.
It will be available for download.
It has professionally done cover artwork.
I have lost the ability to write in complete paragraphs, because that is how ecstatic I am.
I have stood outside, looking up in the sky, with a silly grin on my face, and a laugh in my throat, in wonder and awe of God.
Sometimes life is crappy. Sometimes flowers grow out of it.
And sometimes, God asks for one dream, so He can give you a different one.
This new adventure started a few weeks ago, while I was sitting at a dining room table with two very dear friends. (L and S) We are planning a fundraiser, to help my family out with medical expenses.
I'm a singer songwriter, so the event is a coffee house debut of my music. Throughout the night, L kept fishing for what my favorite song is. That's a tough call, because each of my songs hold deep meaning for different reasons. I had about three in mind, when L dropped the bomb. (my mind is a bit hazy as to what she actually said, but it was along the lines of,)
"You're going to record a single."
My brain exploded. I think I screamed. I couldn't compute.
Me. My music. Professionally recorded and produced. My words and melodies, out there to be discovered!
I couldn't talk for a few minutes. My mind was spinning with the possibilities. All I could do was stammer thank yous, laugh, and try not to cry. Recording was something I saw myself doing in a few years, after I had more music experience, but God's timeline is not mine.
It took a week to decide which song to record. The groundwork has been done, the scratch track finished.
Next week I go back to do more vocals.
It's surreal. An incredible learning experience. A gift from God.
I cannot contain my excitement to share the finished product. (once it's done ;)
Here begins a journey of thanksgiving and gratitude:
L and S, for continually taking my breath away, leaving me speechless at how incredibly good God is.
Jeremy from Given Ideas Visual Productions for shooting the amazing cover art: http://www.givenideas.com/
Eles from Eles Thiessen Music Productions, for recording, mixing, and producing the track. http://www.elesthiessenmusic.com/ (Eles is also an amazing composer, you should definitely check out his music!)
The single is not ready yet, but trust me, you will know when it comes out!
May you be blessed!
Bad crazy: Cancer sucks. Good crazy:
I am now a recording artist!
I am recording a single.
As in, a song that I wrote.
It will be available for download.
It has professionally done cover artwork.
I have lost the ability to write in complete paragraphs, because that is how ecstatic I am.
I have stood outside, looking up in the sky, with a silly grin on my face, and a laugh in my throat, in wonder and awe of God.
Sometimes life is crappy. Sometimes flowers grow out of it.
And sometimes, God asks for one dream, so He can give you a different one.
This new adventure started a few weeks ago, while I was sitting at a dining room table with two very dear friends. (L and S) We are planning a fundraiser, to help my family out with medical expenses.
I'm a singer songwriter, so the event is a coffee house debut of my music. Throughout the night, L kept fishing for what my favorite song is. That's a tough call, because each of my songs hold deep meaning for different reasons. I had about three in mind, when L dropped the bomb. (my mind is a bit hazy as to what she actually said, but it was along the lines of,)
"You're going to record a single."
My brain exploded. I think I screamed. I couldn't compute.
Me. My music. Professionally recorded and produced. My words and melodies, out there to be discovered!
I couldn't talk for a few minutes. My mind was spinning with the possibilities. All I could do was stammer thank yous, laugh, and try not to cry. Recording was something I saw myself doing in a few years, after I had more music experience, but God's timeline is not mine.
It took a week to decide which song to record. The groundwork has been done, the scratch track finished.
Next week I go back to do more vocals.
It's surreal. An incredible learning experience. A gift from God.
I cannot contain my excitement to share the finished product. (once it's done ;)
Here begins a journey of thanksgiving and gratitude:
L and S, for continually taking my breath away, leaving me speechless at how incredibly good God is.
Jeremy from Given Ideas Visual Productions for shooting the amazing cover art: http://www.givenideas.com/
Eles from Eles Thiessen Music Productions, for recording, mixing, and producing the track. http://www.elesthiessenmusic.com/ (Eles is also an amazing composer, you should definitely check out his music!)
The single is not ready yet, but trust me, you will know when it comes out!
May you be blessed!
The Faults with this Star (a hopeful rant)
I have plenty of faults. I consider cancer one of the biggest ones at present.
I'm sure you've all heard of/read/seen the book-turned-movie The Fault in Our Stars. I find it morbidly hilarious that my cancer diagnosis happened the same month the movie came out.
I'm probably not going to see the movie, or read the book, so I know my opinion is incomplete, but I have done my research on the plot and content.
I'm going to step on some toes.
Here's some truth for you:
Cancer in not romantic. Cancer is not fun, cool, or conducive to finding a boyfriend.
There is nothing glamorous about being on crutches for two months and counting.
Where is the romance in being 18, and the bulk of your summer plans consisting of doctor's appointments and daily radiation treatments?
Cancer is a curtain, a thick black blanket that affects and touches every part of your life.
It enfolds your dreams, and veils your future. You go from asking "How will I pay for college?" to
"How do I pay for treatments?"
Sometimes, cancer is a sheer scarf, barely noticeable, yet still influencing how the outfit looks. Other days it's a heavy cape, threatening and stifling.
It's always there.
You know who else is always there?
There's an interesting conversation between Moses and God in Exodus 3:14. God identified Himself as I AM.
Present tense.
They ask who sent you? I AM
The world is crashing down around you? I AM
Cancer has enshrouded you? I AM
Right now, right here. I AM.
In THIS moment.
May you be blessed
I'm sure you've all heard of/read/seen the book-turned-movie The Fault in Our Stars. I find it morbidly hilarious that my cancer diagnosis happened the same month the movie came out.
I'm probably not going to see the movie, or read the book, so I know my opinion is incomplete, but I have done my research on the plot and content.
I'm going to step on some toes.
Here's some truth for you:
Cancer in not romantic. Cancer is not fun, cool, or conducive to finding a boyfriend.
There is nothing glamorous about being on crutches for two months and counting.
Where is the romance in being 18, and the bulk of your summer plans consisting of doctor's appointments and daily radiation treatments?
Cancer is a curtain, a thick black blanket that affects and touches every part of your life.
It enfolds your dreams, and veils your future. You go from asking "How will I pay for college?" to
"How do I pay for treatments?"
Sometimes, cancer is a sheer scarf, barely noticeable, yet still influencing how the outfit looks. Other days it's a heavy cape, threatening and stifling.
It's always there.
You know who else is always there?
There's an interesting conversation between Moses and God in Exodus 3:14. God identified Himself as I AM.
Present tense.
They ask who sent you? I AM
The world is crashing down around you? I AM
Cancer has enshrouded you? I AM
Right now, right here. I AM.
In THIS moment.
May you be blessed
Thursday 17 July 2014
Setbacks: Have You Seen My Evil Sidekick?
My evil sidekick (MES for short) decided to escape today. The tumor wasn't happy hanging out in my foot, it wanted to get out and see the world. Think of it like an iceberg; (except mine is red and bloody) a peanut sized portion of the tumor is above skin, while the avocado pit sized part stayed underground.
Doctors tend to be concerned that MES has been growing and bleeding for the past three days.
Today I was rushed in to see my surgeon, and in a whirlwind found myself in a hospital gown, awaiting the ending of the tumor's field-trip. An hour later, I woke up to the news that my evil sidekick's plans for foot domination have been thwarted, with the help of five stitches. Oh, and crutches are definitely still in the picture; they're not leaving my side anytime soon.
It's a setback. For some reason, God thinks I need to be off my feet this summer.
Rays of sunshine today:
A dear friend coming to get me from the hospital. Apparently, I'm hilarious when waking up from sedation
Watching superhero movies with my sis, because really, what else are you supposed to do when you're not allowed to walk?
Being fitted for a knee crutch! I look like a pirate. Seriously, all I need is a parrot and an eye patch.
Stay tuned for an extraordinarily exciting announcement!
Doctors tend to be concerned that MES has been growing and bleeding for the past three days.
Today I was rushed in to see my surgeon, and in a whirlwind found myself in a hospital gown, awaiting the ending of the tumor's field-trip. An hour later, I woke up to the news that my evil sidekick's plans for foot domination have been thwarted, with the help of five stitches. Oh, and crutches are definitely still in the picture; they're not leaving my side anytime soon.
It's a setback. For some reason, God thinks I need to be off my feet this summer.
Rays of sunshine today:
A dear friend coming to get me from the hospital. Apparently, I'm hilarious when waking up from sedation
Watching superhero movies with my sis, because really, what else are you supposed to do when you're not allowed to walk?
Being fitted for a knee crutch! I look like a pirate. Seriously, all I need is a parrot and an eye patch.
Stay tuned for an extraordinarily exciting announcement!
Wednesday 9 July 2014
When Words Fail
Lately, words have been letting me down. They used to be my friends, then Synovial Sarcoma (a rare form of cancer; literally one in a million, you know the type-private school, trust fund, and sooo out of your league) and his gang started introducing themselves. On Monday I met Radiation, then today I met Reconstructive Surgery, Excision, and Skin Graft.
Still no word from CT scan, though. There was an MRI done last week, and today we received the results. The sarcoma is growing.
Radiation is eager to take over my life for the next five weeks; he wants to see me every day for about ten to fifteen minutes. But, we're a casual relationship, and I don't have to see him weekends.
I get to break up with him mid August, then I'm single for eight weeks.
If all goes well, at the end of September Surgery will sweep me off my feet, and it looks like one of those whirlwind "it's complicated" things. We'll spend six hours excising Cancer, removing tissue and muscle, then turning my foot into a patchwork of skin and nerve grafts taken from my thigh and back. Sounds like a blast, right?
Then I'll spend a week in the hospital, and meet my new, super supportive best friend, Wheelchair.
We'll be really close for three weeks or so, but eventually I'll have to explain that as much as I've appreciated our friendship, it was just for a season. I'm moving on to a new, also temporary friend: Crutches. Now, she and I have a love/hate relationship going on. At times I despise her, but then there are moments she's a gem, and we are SO close.
Guys, I know you always wonder why girls go to the bathroom in groups?
I actually can't go to the bathroom without her. I wouldn't have a leg to stand on. But boy, she is a practical joker! She loves falling over at the most inopportune times, and thwarting my attempts at opening doors or challenging stairs.
Thankfully, I can send her on her way after another three weeks, then start learning how to walk again.
Words fail when the doctor uses them to tell you that the muscles the cancer has spread to will affect the support of your arch, and I'll have to wear extra supportive shoes to compensate. We don't know much right now, but surgery might affect my ability to dance. I am praying so hard it won't.
Dance and movement have always been a way for me to process, worship, and express my feelings.
I remember a sermon I heard last year, and the closing statement was this: God loves addition by subtraction. When things are darkest, that's when you start looking for a miracle.
I'm trying really hard to maintain hope, and process the doctors being realistic. I know God works miracles, but I also know they sometimes don't look like what we want or expect.
I'm in a hazy place.
Thank you for your continued support and prayers.
Still no word from CT scan, though. There was an MRI done last week, and today we received the results. The sarcoma is growing.
Radiation is eager to take over my life for the next five weeks; he wants to see me every day for about ten to fifteen minutes. But, we're a casual relationship, and I don't have to see him weekends.
I get to break up with him mid August, then I'm single for eight weeks.
If all goes well, at the end of September Surgery will sweep me off my feet, and it looks like one of those whirlwind "it's complicated" things. We'll spend six hours excising Cancer, removing tissue and muscle, then turning my foot into a patchwork of skin and nerve grafts taken from my thigh and back. Sounds like a blast, right?
Then I'll spend a week in the hospital, and meet my new, super supportive best friend, Wheelchair.
We'll be really close for three weeks or so, but eventually I'll have to explain that as much as I've appreciated our friendship, it was just for a season. I'm moving on to a new, also temporary friend: Crutches. Now, she and I have a love/hate relationship going on. At times I despise her, but then there are moments she's a gem, and we are SO close.
Guys, I know you always wonder why girls go to the bathroom in groups?
I actually can't go to the bathroom without her. I wouldn't have a leg to stand on. But boy, she is a practical joker! She loves falling over at the most inopportune times, and thwarting my attempts at opening doors or challenging stairs.
Thankfully, I can send her on her way after another three weeks, then start learning how to walk again.
Words fail when the doctor uses them to tell you that the muscles the cancer has spread to will affect the support of your arch, and I'll have to wear extra supportive shoes to compensate. We don't know much right now, but surgery might affect my ability to dance. I am praying so hard it won't.
Dance and movement have always been a way for me to process, worship, and express my feelings.
I remember a sermon I heard last year, and the closing statement was this: God loves addition by subtraction. When things are darkest, that's when you start looking for a miracle.
I'm trying really hard to maintain hope, and process the doctors being realistic. I know God works miracles, but I also know they sometimes don't look like what we want or expect.
I'm in a hazy place.
Thank you for your continued support and prayers.
Thursday 26 June 2014
Holding Lightly: When the World Comes Crashing Down
*I am a verbal processor. Parts of this post may not make sense, since I still don't know how to understand what's happening*
My world came crashing down today. Those who know me know that I am very theatrical.
How I wish this was theater.
The scene: Sitting in the doctors office, with one of my best friends (we'll call her P), and my mom. We're chatting, and I complain of being cold. P is in the middle of a story when a soft knock sounds on the door, and the doctor walks in. Introductions are made, and we all sit down. That's the last clear memory I have. The rest is haze.
The facts are: I have synovial sarcoma. My first reaction is relief. Not cancer! Still serious, if I can judge by the look on the Dr's face, but better than what I was expecting. Her next sentence shatters my hope.
"It's cancer."
Two words; that's all it takes for my delicately crafted reality to shatter. I almost laugh. There's a hidden camera somewhere, right? Did I walk on the set of one of those fake reality shows?
Nope, because next there's talk of specialists, MRIs, CT scans, and surgery. Endless circles of questions, and unsatisfying answers.
"No, the pathology report hasn't come in. It should in the next two weeks, then we'll know what stage the cancer's at."
"We're sending you for another MRI to see if the tumor has grown since February." (now that was a memorable Valentines Day; getting an MRI on your foot!)
"We also need to do a CT on your chest, because this kind of cancer likes to metastasize in the lungs."
"Your surgery plan should be in place by the end of July, and the removal should happen early August."
I'll still trying to compute the fact that recovery is 6 weeks to 3 months. Off my feet. I've had enough trouble staying off my feet for 3 weeks.
What does this mean for the road to rosebud?
It's gonna be a heck of a lot harder than I ever dreamed. I was supposed to move in 9 weeks, but in the days and weeks to come it's a dream I've got to hold lightly.
I am not giving up, I am lying on the ground at my heavenly Father's feet, desperately clinging to the shattered pieces of my plans. I know I will come to the place where I will give them to Him, and He will make a beautiful mosaic out of the shards. Right now I'm still in the ugly cry phase.
I've taken Psalm 18 as my battle cry, brokenly singing Reason to Sing by All Sons and Daughters
"If there be a victory, will You sing it over me now?
Your peace is a melody, will You sing it over me now?
I need a reason to sing, I need to know that You're still holding the whole world in Your hands. and THAT is a reason to sing."
I know people are praying for me; thank you. I haven't done much praying, because I've mostly been numb. Please keep praying, because I'm too exhausted to fight right now.
What I need right now is community. You know that whole thing about being Jesus's hands a feet? Feet can be used to take you to someone's house, (that someone being me) plus hands and arms are excellent for giving hugs. Besides, it's a superb reason for us to catch up. Lets do stuff that makes us laugh, cause I'm going to need to balance out seeing straight faced specialists, and the barrage of tests that are coming up.
If there's anything I've learned about myself in the past year it's this: I am resilient and adaptable. Though I can spout positivity, right now I feel like crap, but the beauty of feelings is that they change. I know deep down in my gut that I won't always feel shell-shocked, dazed, and depressed, but that doesn't change how I feel at this moment. I'm holding to the promise I preached in church a few months ago (ask me about it sometime!) I tweaked one word to fit my circumstances:
I believe in the sun, even when it's not shining
I believe inlove healing, even when I don't feel it
I believe in God, even when He is silent
I believe.
My world came crashing down today. Those who know me know that I am very theatrical.
How I wish this was theater.
The scene: Sitting in the doctors office, with one of my best friends (we'll call her P), and my mom. We're chatting, and I complain of being cold. P is in the middle of a story when a soft knock sounds on the door, and the doctor walks in. Introductions are made, and we all sit down. That's the last clear memory I have. The rest is haze.
The facts are: I have synovial sarcoma. My first reaction is relief. Not cancer! Still serious, if I can judge by the look on the Dr's face, but better than what I was expecting. Her next sentence shatters my hope.
"It's cancer."
Two words; that's all it takes for my delicately crafted reality to shatter. I almost laugh. There's a hidden camera somewhere, right? Did I walk on the set of one of those fake reality shows?
Nope, because next there's talk of specialists, MRIs, CT scans, and surgery. Endless circles of questions, and unsatisfying answers.
"No, the pathology report hasn't come in. It should in the next two weeks, then we'll know what stage the cancer's at."
"We're sending you for another MRI to see if the tumor has grown since February." (now that was a memorable Valentines Day; getting an MRI on your foot!)
"We also need to do a CT on your chest, because this kind of cancer likes to metastasize in the lungs."
"Your surgery plan should be in place by the end of July, and the removal should happen early August."
I'll still trying to compute the fact that recovery is 6 weeks to 3 months. Off my feet. I've had enough trouble staying off my feet for 3 weeks.
What does this mean for the road to rosebud?
It's gonna be a heck of a lot harder than I ever dreamed. I was supposed to move in 9 weeks, but in the days and weeks to come it's a dream I've got to hold lightly.
I am not giving up, I am lying on the ground at my heavenly Father's feet, desperately clinging to the shattered pieces of my plans. I know I will come to the place where I will give them to Him, and He will make a beautiful mosaic out of the shards. Right now I'm still in the ugly cry phase.
I've taken Psalm 18 as my battle cry, brokenly singing Reason to Sing by All Sons and Daughters
"If there be a victory, will You sing it over me now?
Your peace is a melody, will You sing it over me now?
I need a reason to sing, I need to know that You're still holding the whole world in Your hands. and THAT is a reason to sing."
I know people are praying for me; thank you. I haven't done much praying, because I've mostly been numb. Please keep praying, because I'm too exhausted to fight right now.
What I need right now is community. You know that whole thing about being Jesus's hands a feet? Feet can be used to take you to someone's house, (that someone being me) plus hands and arms are excellent for giving hugs. Besides, it's a superb reason for us to catch up. Lets do stuff that makes us laugh, cause I'm going to need to balance out seeing straight faced specialists, and the barrage of tests that are coming up.
If there's anything I've learned about myself in the past year it's this: I am resilient and adaptable. Though I can spout positivity, right now I feel like crap, but the beauty of feelings is that they change. I know deep down in my gut that I won't always feel shell-shocked, dazed, and depressed, but that doesn't change how I feel at this moment. I'm holding to the promise I preached in church a few months ago (ask me about it sometime!) I tweaked one word to fit my circumstances:
I believe in the sun, even when it's not shining
I believe in
I believe in God, even when He is silent
I believe.
Monday 16 June 2014
Bittersweet: Nothing ever goes as planned
I walked for the first time in two weeks today.
For the past six months, I've undergone a battery of tests for the egg sized tumor in my foot. X rays, ultrasound, MRI, and finally a biopsy. I spent five days on bedrest, and a week on crutches.
It's been one of the hardest weeks of my life, so far. I never understood what a privilege it is to go up and down stairs, open a door, or simply walk.
Bitter: I was supposed to receive the diagnosis today. The answer is, they don't know. It is or it isn't cancer. They sent the sample to the Mayo clinic in Minnesota, and it'll be another week before we get the results. My doc's advice is to bring someone for moral support, when the results do come in. If it is cancer, they'll probably have to reconstruct my foot.
Sweet: walking with no crutches all afternoon
Bitter: having to go back on crutches because my foot started bleeding.
Today has left me emotionally drained.
Best case scenario: the tumor is benign, it gets removed, and I start school in the fall, possibly still recovering a bit. This is the option I'm asking you to pray for.
If it's cancer, the procedure becomes exponentially more complicated. More of the foot tissue has to be removed, skin grafts have to be done, and tests performed, to see if the cancer has spread. My doctor has advised holding off my first payment for school, because I might not be healed enough to go.
To be absolutely clear, the only thing that is definite, is that there's going to be another surgery.
I'm not borrowing trouble, simply outlining the two possible outcomes, and trying to process it all.
I'm 18. I'm accepted into the only school I've ever dreamed of going: Rosebud School of the Arts. (hence the blog name) I dance. I run. I hop on one leg to study. I have dreams of being on Broadway.
What am I supposed to do? I have prayed, and been prayed over for healing so many times.
What do I prepare myself for? How hard do I fight to be optimistic? At what point do I let go?
I don't have the answers right now, but I would love your prayers.
Much love,
Star
For the past six months, I've undergone a battery of tests for the egg sized tumor in my foot. X rays, ultrasound, MRI, and finally a biopsy. I spent five days on bedrest, and a week on crutches.
It's been one of the hardest weeks of my life, so far. I never understood what a privilege it is to go up and down stairs, open a door, or simply walk.
Bitter: I was supposed to receive the diagnosis today. The answer is, they don't know. It is or it isn't cancer. They sent the sample to the Mayo clinic in Minnesota, and it'll be another week before we get the results. My doc's advice is to bring someone for moral support, when the results do come in. If it is cancer, they'll probably have to reconstruct my foot.
Sweet: walking with no crutches all afternoon
Bitter: having to go back on crutches because my foot started bleeding.
Today has left me emotionally drained.
Best case scenario: the tumor is benign, it gets removed, and I start school in the fall, possibly still recovering a bit. This is the option I'm asking you to pray for.
If it's cancer, the procedure becomes exponentially more complicated. More of the foot tissue has to be removed, skin grafts have to be done, and tests performed, to see if the cancer has spread. My doctor has advised holding off my first payment for school, because I might not be healed enough to go.
To be absolutely clear, the only thing that is definite, is that there's going to be another surgery.
I'm not borrowing trouble, simply outlining the two possible outcomes, and trying to process it all.
I'm 18. I'm accepted into the only school I've ever dreamed of going: Rosebud School of the Arts. (hence the blog name) I dance. I run. I hop on one leg to study. I have dreams of being on Broadway.
What am I supposed to do? I have prayed, and been prayed over for healing so many times.
What do I prepare myself for? How hard do I fight to be optimistic? At what point do I let go?
I don't have the answers right now, but I would love your prayers.
Much love,
Star
Friday 25 April 2014
The Place Called Contentment (the importance of being okay)
I finally understood today.
As I listened to this sermon by Joshua Harris, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyKDSxT1QOw
head knowledge started it's descent to my heart.
Boys are friends, not food.
Let me explain.
I've grown up, and am living in, a culture that idolizes.
Everything.
Money, power, sex, men, women, fill in the blank.
We're trained to objectify and worship. I hear a lot about the objectification of women.
But blame does not lie completely on one side. I'm just as guilty of wrong ideas and expectations.
The Bible tells us to do unto others as we would have others do unto you.
If I treat guys in my life as eye candy, or a prospective boyfriend, is that how I will be treated?
What bugs me is when I'm having a perfectly innocent interaction with a guy at church, I usually get questioned afterward,
"Do you like him?"
"Do you think he likes me?" I respond. We giggle and I blush. This begins the down spiral of doom.
I instantly set myself up for disaster. Once that little word "like" has been thrown into your thoughts, its hard to view that person in the same way. Immediately a commentary begins in your head the next time you speak to them:
"Oh, I wonder if he does really like me. He's talking to me. That's a good sign. Or is he talking to me because I'm standing alone and I look pathetic. Does he think I'm pathetic? Oh, great, now I"m blushing. wait, what did he just say?"
It's hard to un-think things once they've been introduced into your mind, or not react when you are attracted to someone, but it's not impossible. A little nugget that I need reminding of often: Attraction doesn't go away in marriage. Even once you are married, temptation will arise. The habits I build now will shape my future choices. If I let myself innocently"like" a lot of the guys I interact with, that sets my heart up for a challenge once I find the one I'll love.
It's something God has been convicting me of, and there's been a lot of heart surgery going on. He's been telling me "no" to the guy desire. He's challenged me to stop looking, and change my attitudes. It's a daily surrender, and I am far from perfect. I'm learning how to love and honor the men on my life as brothers, which brings me to my next point.
The importance of being okay.
It seems like God has me in a season of "no." He's been asking for everything. All my desires, dreams, hopes, plans, all of me.
I've been sitting at His feet, not listening, just reading off my list of What I Think Is Good For Me.
He's waited patiently, then answers,
"That's not the good I have for you."
It's not that my desires are wrong, but the right thing at the wrong time is the wrong thing.
I've reluctantly handed over my list, and you know what?
I'm okay! More than okay! This week has brought some tough stuff, and yet all I've experienced is peace and joy that surpass understanding.
I'm moving closer to the place called contentment.
May you be blessed!
Star
Wednesday 16 April 2014
The Sound of Someone Wanting Me
The soft buzz of my phone vibrating alerts me to the fact I have an unread message. I pause what I am doing to deliberate. Do I break my concentration to read the message? I try to focus on the book I'm studying, but the magnetism is too strong.
My fingers slide across the screen, anticipation rising, unbidden. Someone, somewhere, wants to talk to me, if the short bursts of traded information that are texts can be called talking. I touch the unopened envelope, and the text appears.
My mom checking to see if I need any groceries.
The anticipation ebbs a little, as I respond. I exchange the phone for my studying.
The soft vibration distracts me again. I reassure myself it's only my mom again.
The soft vibration distracts me again. I reassure myself it's only my mom again.
It's not! A is responding to an earlier question. Our exchange lasts a few minutes, then she doesn't reply. I check the phone occasionally, though I know it would have notified me of a new text. Half an hour goes by, and I wonder why I care so much about the five word reply.
I know why, without wanting to.
I know why, without wanting to.
Every time the little envelope shows up, it validates me. I am worth contacting, and interacting with. On days when the screen is blank, my mood is a little dimmer. It seems that everyone else's lives are so busy, and I am left behind. Waiting.
Why does the chime of my phone cause me to drop everything to respond?
It's the sound of someone wanting me.
This was a pretty recent journal entry. God's been convicting me of how many distractions I let into my life. He's been challenging me to push deeper into our relationship, and to rest in His presence. Ask any of my friends, and they'll tell you resting is not my thing.
Since the Christian walk is full of challenges, here's one I'm laying down for myself:
Continue to give God part of my day, but do so with intention. This has been a pretty big plank in my eye. SO obvious, I've chosen to ignore it. The first step to fixing something is recognizing it's broken.
I would say wish me luck, but I don't believe in luck, so prayers would be appreciated!
May you be blessed!
Star
Why does the chime of my phone cause me to drop everything to respond?
It's the sound of someone wanting me.
This was a pretty recent journal entry. God's been convicting me of how many distractions I let into my life. He's been challenging me to push deeper into our relationship, and to rest in His presence. Ask any of my friends, and they'll tell you resting is not my thing.
Since the Christian walk is full of challenges, here's one I'm laying down for myself:
Continue to give God part of my day, but do so with intention. This has been a pretty big plank in my eye. SO obvious, I've chosen to ignore it. The first step to fixing something is recognizing it's broken.
I would say wish me luck, but I don't believe in luck, so prayers would be appreciated!
May you be blessed!
Star
Sunday 23 March 2014
Do You Ever Feel Lost?
Have you ever felt so lonely, you were numb?
When all the hurt, confusion, despair, and longing grew so intense, it turned into an aching emptiness?
Have you wondered what use it is to be alive?
Have you heard the seductive thoughts that tell you you're better off dead, or the whisper that people would finally notice if you were gone?
Have you known darkness so deep, it felt like no light would ever penetrate it?
I have.
I know what it's like to be forgotten. I know how it feels to be devastated, isolated.
Pretty hopeless, right?
Did you know Jesus felt the ache too? He faced ultimate rejection from his father, and his friends. (Matt 26:36-46, 27:46)
Christ gets how it feels to be desperately longing to be noticed and known by someone.
He is empathetic towards us. Empathy comes from a background of knowing. Empathy has experienced your pain. Jesus didn't just experience our pain, he came to redeem it.
He saw me in my isolation. He sees you in the confusion and loneliness.
He longs to sit beside you, to hold and cry with with you. He aches to share your pain.
It hurts Him when you don't.
He wants to hold your hand, and drive away the darkness. He wants to save you. He died so that you wouldn't have to.
Please don't give up. I've come so close to surrendering, so many times. Jesus has held me back. He's holding you too, stretching out His scarred, strong hands to guide you away from the cliff's edge. He's smiling at you, inviting you to join Him in warm, sweet light.
Life is so much better in the Son.
When all the hurt, confusion, despair, and longing grew so intense, it turned into an aching emptiness?
Have you wondered what use it is to be alive?
Have you heard the seductive thoughts that tell you you're better off dead, or the whisper that people would finally notice if you were gone?
Have you known darkness so deep, it felt like no light would ever penetrate it?
I have.
I know what it's like to be forgotten. I know how it feels to be devastated, isolated.
Pretty hopeless, right?
Did you know Jesus felt the ache too? He faced ultimate rejection from his father, and his friends. (Matt 26:36-46, 27:46)
Christ gets how it feels to be desperately longing to be noticed and known by someone.
He is empathetic towards us. Empathy comes from a background of knowing. Empathy has experienced your pain. Jesus didn't just experience our pain, he came to redeem it.
He saw me in my isolation. He sees you in the confusion and loneliness.
He longs to sit beside you, to hold and cry with with you. He aches to share your pain.
It hurts Him when you don't.
He wants to hold your hand, and drive away the darkness. He wants to save you. He died so that you wouldn't have to.
Please don't give up. I've come so close to surrendering, so many times. Jesus has held me back. He's holding you too, stretching out His scarred, strong hands to guide you away from the cliff's edge. He's smiling at you, inviting you to join Him in warm, sweet light.
Life is so much better in the Son.
Tuesday 14 January 2014
Hope
"Jesus, can you fix it?" I anxiously ask. He tenderly looks at me, and delicately picks up the pieces I'm holding out to him.
"What happened this time?'
We both know. He doesn't need to ask, but he likes and wants me to tell him.
"I hoped too much." I reply. He cocks an eyebrow. "I hoped, and prayed, but my dreams were dashed. My heart, my hope, it's broken."
"Dear heart, you can't have too much hope," He responds, "You can hope for the wrong things, or the right things at the wrong time, or confuse expectations with hope, but hoping too much isn't the problem. You lost sight of me, and stopped hoping for what I have in store for you. You expected a certain thing to happen, something that isn't my will for you. Not everything in your future will be pleasant, but if you trust me, I'll bring the right thing at the right time."
Hope. People react differently to the four letter word. It's intangible, immeasurable, and for some, unattainable. It's something they've lost. Do you find yourself losing hope? Do you have unfulfilled dreams? What IS hope, anyway?
Romans 8:24-25 For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience
Hope is unseen.
Hebrews 11:1 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen
Faith and hope are intertwined.
In order to hope, you must believe with conviction, that God will fulfill what He has started. (Phil 1:6)
In order to have faith, you must hope in the unseen, immeasurable. It's scary sometimes.
But you know what? Christ always shows up. (Deut. 31:6)
That's something to hope about.
Take heart! Allow yourself to hope again. Bring the pieces of your heart before God's throne, and ask Him what happened. Were you hurt because of expectations masquerading as hope? Take the time to let Him evaluate your heart, and your hope.
Here is a link to some great verses about hope.
May you be blessed!
"What happened this time?'
We both know. He doesn't need to ask, but he likes and wants me to tell him.
"I hoped too much." I reply. He cocks an eyebrow. "I hoped, and prayed, but my dreams were dashed. My heart, my hope, it's broken."
"Dear heart, you can't have too much hope," He responds, "You can hope for the wrong things, or the right things at the wrong time, or confuse expectations with hope, but hoping too much isn't the problem. You lost sight of me, and stopped hoping for what I have in store for you. You expected a certain thing to happen, something that isn't my will for you. Not everything in your future will be pleasant, but if you trust me, I'll bring the right thing at the right time."
Hope. People react differently to the four letter word. It's intangible, immeasurable, and for some, unattainable. It's something they've lost. Do you find yourself losing hope? Do you have unfulfilled dreams? What IS hope, anyway?
Romans 8:24-25 For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience
Hope is unseen.
Hebrews 11:1 Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen
In order to hope, you must believe with conviction, that God will fulfill what He has started. (Phil 1:6)
In order to have faith, you must hope in the unseen, immeasurable. It's scary sometimes.
But you know what? Christ always shows up. (Deut. 31:6)
That's something to hope about.
Take heart! Allow yourself to hope again. Bring the pieces of your heart before God's throne, and ask Him what happened. Were you hurt because of expectations masquerading as hope? Take the time to let Him evaluate your heart, and your hope.
Here is a link to some great verses about hope.
May you be blessed!
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