Today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

Today is the first day of the rest of our lives...

[Disjointed, because I'm writing stream of consciousness... sorry!]

Nine months ago, Jon was diagnosed with a PMBCL tumor in his chest.  I've jokingly told him that this is his (much harder) pregnancy - no alcohol, restricted diet, pain, nausea, scans and hospitals.  And now, 9 months later, he is about to give birth to whatever comes next.

You've heard that it was said, "whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger" - but I tell you, there's a long part in the middle, before you see the stronger part, where you're really not sure whether you're going to wind up stronger or destroyed.  When what would, will, make you stronger actually does really threaten to destroy you. 

Today is Jon's big PET scan - he went back for the injection about 15 minutes ago, and so I am sitting in the lobby waiting with my very large cup of coffee and empty stomach.  Today is the day when we will either hear the words "remission" or we will hear that the cancer is still there and we're moving into phase 2 of treatment.   We'll either hear that Jon is neutropenic again, or that he appears to finally have a self-generated immune system. We have hunches and guesses, longings and prayers, but really we know nothing.  And so we are waiting once again.

The middle period of waiting is hellish.

For three months, we have waited.  Life has felt normalish - we've gone camping, we've made playdates, we've had dinner parties, we've made new friends, we've gone on dates, we've felt safe enough to have real fights again, we've made plans for further out than the next day - but there's always the specter of cancer, looming in the background.

There are many days now when I feel normal - mentally healthy, sane, and able to be humorous - and then out of the blue, walking down our hill, I will hear my own screams (in my head), grieving the premature loss of my husband and my kids' daddy.  I will find myself watching Jon with the kids and begin weeping, imagining their grief were he not there.  I will irrationally panic over a child with a cough too close to my husband. 

What they don't tell you, when you begin a cancer journey, is that the aftermath of treatment is every bit as trying as the process.  That being a caregiver or family of a loved one, you might not have cancer in your body, but you have cancer.  And when life finally slows down to the waiting period - that you have to begin the process of actually healing and processing all the things you didn't have space to process when you were in the thick of treatment.  And sometimes it's really hard - fighting back the fear is a real battle - learning to live normal life again takes time.  Even small talk has to be relearned - because after something like this, it feels petty - even while it serves a worthwhile social purpose.  I'm sure that, come whatever may, I will need years of counseling to fully process all that has transpired. 

As an aside, don't even speak to me about children separated from their parents at the border - it will make me too angry.  I have witnessed first hand the trauma that occurs when children are separated from a parent and scared that they will lose that parent.  I don't have to imagine their screams because I have heard them from my own children - I still hear them in my dreams - as they were pulled away from us, scared - in a process that we were able to prepare them for, into the safe arms of loving friends and family members, to be reunited with us only days later.  My oldest son has been in counseling for months and is finally seeing healing happen - but the trauma has been real and should *never* be used as a weapon to deter anything.  I try hard to be able to honor multiple perspectives as valid, including ones that are different from my own, but on this one, no, I will not hear it. 

Kids *are* incredibly resilient, and I feel like we're finally seeing the fruit of that in our children - they are stronger now than they were before, after a process that I would never wish on anyone.  They are more aware of their emotions and feelings, they are learning kindness and generosity in ways that they wouldn't have otherwise - and they understand in a much deeper way what it means to be cared for by friends and to care for others in return.  They know that it's okay to feel sad and angry and scared, but what we do when we feel those emotions matters. 

And Jon and I, we are stronger too, even though we might not always feel it.  We have seen firsthand the kindness and generosity of our village - we have literally been carried by them, by you, more times than we can count.  Like Moses in the battle with Amalek (Ex. 17:8-13),  time and time again, our arms have been upheld in battle, when we cannot hold them up on our own anymore.  We know that we are not alone.  We are more open, more willing to share our lives with others, and more honest about what matters and what doesn't.  We understand the value of one another far more than we would have before and fight to enjoy one another even as we see our differences more plainly.  We strive to make the most of each day together, rather than put things off for a more opportune time.  We have learned that gratitude sweetens ANY circumstance and makes even the hardest situations livable.

This has been a hellish year.  But it hasn't killed us yet, so maybe it is making us stronger.

And so here we are today.  The waiting is ending.  Today is the first day of the rest of our lives. 

Does it matter, what the news is?

On one hand, yes, absolutely it matters.  We will be crushed if the cancer is still there.  Our lives will once again be raked across the coals.  Our battle will increase and our trauma to heal from will prolong. We will grieve with real grief.  In the same way that we will celebrate with real joy if the cancer is finally gone. We will laugh and jump and cry and make plans for a big party with all of you - because this is something worth celebrating!

But on the other hand, it doesn't matter.  We will live today the same way, either way.  With gratitude for one another and our communities.  In humble dependence on one another and our village.  We will keep walking forward, not backwards.  We will believe in the same God that we have believed in through this journey - and sustained by His hand, we will continue to walk forward, whether into hospital or home.  We will continue to heal and hope and long for a world in which cancer is not part of the story.  We will run with Dana Farber to see cancer annihilated (please join us on July 22nd!).

We will continue to love one another and live out our vows to one another - whether it be in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse. 

Come what may.

Onward and upward.  Further up and further in...

Season may change, winter to spring
But I love you until the end of time
Come what may, come what may
I will love you until my dying day