Now. Here. This.

The winding road wended its way down into the valley. . . 
That is how I arrived in Rosebud. Driving down into a lush green bowl, where cell service is spotty, and the water tastes funny, but you don't care because you're surrounded by beauty. 
The road to Rosebud has been travelled. Three long years, and now,
I live in Rosebud. 
Rosebud. 
I usually don't repeat words that much, but 
Rosebud.
I'm here.
This is home now.
I'm repeating myself, trying it out, seeing if it feels real.
I was looking back over this blog; there are things I wrote three years ago, that I don't have the heart to take down or edit, though some don't represent  who I am any more.
My posts are snapshots of who I am, and where I've been, since I don't usually take pictures.
Am I leading up to one of those, "it's been great for a season, I've loved blogging, but I'm too busy now, blah blah blah" posts?
No. 
This space has been a place for me to vent, heal and process.
I'm already an infrequent writer, so sporadic posting is consistent with my style.
Plus, I have a ton of writing to do for school.
The Road to Rosebud. 
The title isn't going to change.
I will.
I already am.
I'm acclimating to a hectic school schedule. On a typical day, classes start at 8:30 am, and sometimes you don't get home till 9 pm, with breaks for meals in between.
Maybe I love it.
Maybe I'm scared, and uncertain about how to balance homework, people, meals, and sleep.
Maybe I'm figuring out how to maintain my relationship with God in all the crazy.
Maybe my mind is hurting sometimes from information overload.
Maybe I find myself crying while watching a heart-wrenching performance.
Maybe I absolutely love my room, and having my own space.
Maybe I love it.
Maybe there's no maybe; simply a word standing in the way of the truth, a truth no one will be surprised by, and I just wrote all that because I like the sound of the words flowing together. 
I love it.
It's not all sunshine and roses, and I know I'm going to be unravelled and undone
But  
If there were ever a place for that to happen, I'm already here.

More ramblings to come soon!  

Metallic Fog

The meds make my mouth taste like metal
In the fog I stumble, blindly
Trying to find a scrap of me
I'm sick, but no one knows what that means
Because nobody sees
Why don't you drink coffee?
They ask when I say I have no energy
They don't understand as I try to explain
The pain the meds take away is replaced
With mind-numbing fog
Get some sleep! It'll help you feel better
I know that but
My body is a rebel
My mind an endless tangle of thoughts
And concerns that never stop
More medication required
Till I'm taking more pills that my grandparents
And it tastes like metal in my mouth

Recovery is really really hard.
I feel like I keep trading one problem for another.
Cancer is gone, Yay.
Cancer causes lots of stress, and so does creating an EP, and performing in two fringe shows.
I haven't recovered yet.

I'm on multiple medications for various things.
Sometimes my meds don't get along, and my mind is the field they battle upon.
I'm tired.
I leave for Rosebud in 11 days.
But I'm trying to find the off switch for the fog machine someone put in my brain.
There are rays of light, like long talks and walks in beautiful parks with wonderful people.
And I know today was especially difficult; there are good days and bad days, and I'm writing this post under extreme exhaustion. Who knows, I might read it tomorrow and delete it.
Please grant me grace in the upcoming days, as I adjust to the medications and side effects.
Much love,
Esther

The End of the Beginning

Weird. I feel weird. The last nine months have been focused on the album. Writing, editing, singing, practicing, recording, coordinating musicians, my schedule has been all about the album.
I finished recording the last song. 
Frankly, it was anticlimactic. I had a good chat with my producer, and walked out the multiple soundproof doors, like I regularly have for the past four months. Except. That was it. My job in the studio is done. It seems only yesterday I was laying the scratch tracks while sick with the flu.
Now, months later, after many mugs of tea, and minus the flu, the final tracks have been mixed and mastered. Unquenchable Hope releases May 26th.
I'm waiting for the artwork to be finished, then everything will be sent off to be printed.
Weird.
It's weird to have to shift focus, and realize recording wasn't the end, it was the end of the beginning.
My time in the studio was it's own adventure, filled with laughter, tears, and learning curves.
Creating Unquenchable Hope has been full of surprises and challenges. I have no idea what to expect next. It might be a huge success, beyond the horizons of what I could dream.
Or, like a shooting star, it could blaze for a moment, then disappear.
It's already done the job I intended for it--an outlet for my emotions. The rest is up to God.
But, if I were to dream out loud, my desire is that the EP (extended play, industry speak for my project) would touch you, deeply. That you would cry with me, and come out celebrating your battle scars, emotional, physical, or both.
Unquenchable Hope.
It's an ambitious title to live up to.
The thing is, I'm not referring to myself ;)
    

There Was No Funeral

There was no funeral

No flowers
No ceremony
No one had died

No weeping or wailing.

Just in my heart

I can’t. . .

But I did anyway,

and nobody knew I couldn’t

I don’t want to. . .

But nobody else said they didn’t

So I put down my panic

and picked up my luggage

and got on the plane.

There was no funeral

This was a poem I found in a book for MKs (missionary kids. Another post for another day) I really connected with it. Moving countries is hard, especially when you have no say in the matter.
Recently, I came back to this poem because it applies on another level.
I had no say when the tumor came, made me pack my bags, and travel to the country of Cancer. The plane landed in the middle of a field, at the foot of a huge mountain. The natives wore white lab coats.
Cancer is a different culture. You learn a different language, and how to navigate new territory.
You're told that there is no way around; you have to climb. This is when the strange irony sets in. You're in a different country, but geographically speaking, nothing has changed.
Your friends cheer as you start hiking. Days go by, and the echo of their words fade. Close friends keep up with your progress, and supply you with energy bars. (In Cancer, energy bars can be visits, encouraging notes, or prayer)
You have a goal: Go through radiation, surgery, whatever it takes to ascend. Finally, the peak is in sight; hitting the mountaintop is being told you're cancer free.
The thing is, after the declaration has been made, you can't get on a plane and leave the place it brought you to.
You're still stuck in another country, on a mountain, and the only way off is to trek down.
Only you feel like you have nothing left, nothing more to give. Even your tears have been used up.
There aren't quite as many people cheering, because the worst is past, right?
The assumption is once you hit the top, a helicopter comes, life returns to normal.
It doesn't.
The natural high from reaching the peak fades quickly. You sit down, confused, engaged in a different kind of struggle. There was a wide, clear cut trail leading to the top, but now, a forest stretches ahead, and you realize you have no compass. The air is thin, forcing you to get back up, and keep going, though the destination is unclear.
You find an overgrown deer trail and start bushwhacking. It's dark, and sometimes lonely.
Again, the contradiction of Cancer washes over you. You still hang out with friends, and try to do normal stuff, but nobody can see the forest. Life has gone on normally. Yours has continued in the sense that you eat, breathe, try to sleep, and meet new people. But it also involves forging new paths, and being unable to shake a deep feeling of loss. Then guilt sets in over feeling that way. Everyone is asking when you're going back to work, telling you that this was only a small part of your life, and look to the future!
But the trees.
They can't see the trees.
As you continue hiking, your daily interactions reveal fragments of an answer.
There was no funeral.
Somewhere along the way, innocence was lost. Nightmares of intense, traumatic pain became real.
Dreams died.
The whirlwind of your experience engulfs you, ripping through your body, leaving exhaustion in it's wake.
Dazed, you look around, wondering where to go, who to talk to. How to mourn.
Fear sets in. Will anybody want, or try to understand?
There was no funeral.

To the Person Who Noticed My Feet

Yes. I am wearing two different boots, one black, the other brown.
I'll give you credit for noticing; not many people do.
I saw amusement on your face as you whispered to your neighbor, and then both of you were staring. Laughing. Judging. I could see it in the way you whispered.
I'll admit, I'd wonder too if I saw someone with odd shoes. Chalk it up to absentmindedness, quirkiness or a new form of hipster.
But I wouldn't laugh at them. I might even ask them about it.
Everyone has a story, motivation for the things they do.
You had no way of knowing I had cancer, or that surgery left my foot large and swollen, which makes normal shoe wearing impossible. The reason my shoes don't match, is that in order to find something to accommodate the skin graft, I had to buy boots three sizes bigger than normal. I hope you have enough imagination to realize where this is going. On occasion, I wear extra socks so that my right foot fits, resulting in uniformity of footwear, but sometimes I want to wear one nice shoe.
You see, you judged too quickly. Without knowing my full story, you looked at a slice of it, and I became the butt of a joke.
Honestly, I don't mind that much. If it gave you a funny anecdote, fine. I often joke about it.
So, why am I writing you?
There is a deeper issue than laughing at the unconventional.
We live in a world where tolerance is frantically being drilled into everyone's vocabulary and actions. It's a nice thing to talk about, but much harder to practice.
Our world is also full of reality TV, America's Funniest Home Videos, and endless posts on Youtube of unfortunate incidents occurring. We are trained to be spectators, forgetting that the people we mock and ridicule are precisely that: People. Skin, bones, blood, hearts, feelings, brains, souls. 
I am blessed to be surrounded by a lovely community who know my story. I can laugh at the fact that you had nothing better to do than gossip about my footwear. I don't care what you think about me, I'll never see you again.
But I'm worried about the next person you'll gossip about. Maybe they will be hurt by the derisive whispers and giggles. Remember, you don't know their story.
And, believe it or not, sometimes I actually wear shoes that match.

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.