Nobody Told Me

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.

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.