Milkweed

After watching the sunset over the Muhlenberg Brigade Huts at Valley Forge National Park, my son and I started back towards the car. I kept stopping to take pictures along the way. Brett slowed to a stop so the dog could take care of some personal business and I waited, continuously looking for things to photograph. Across the path from us, the milkweed was turning to seed and I thought how some of them resembled an animal's ears. At one point, I convinced myself that if I stared hard enough, I could even imagine a face between two of them. I kept staring, finally whispering to Brett to look. I pointed, asking if he could see how those two particular milkweed seed pods kind of looked like ears. He was just starting to see where I was pointing when the "pods" moved, turned to the side, giving us a clear view of its body. It paused for a few seconds, then ran into the brush, disappearing from sight. Brett and I looked at each other to make sure we both saw it. What I thought was my imagination actually turned out to be a live animal. Later I spoke to a park ranger and described what we saw, asking if it was more likely a gray fox or a coyote and she told me it was probably a coyote, as gray foxes aren't common in that habitat. She said they had seen a litter of young coyotes in the park. I am so thankful my son saw it as well or I would always assume my imagination had turned into a hallucination at that moment. I'm also thankful for confirmation from a park ranger who knew all about the park and the wildlife that inhabits it.

I had the opportunity to return to South Carolina for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. Since leaving in 1989 as a newlywed, I rarely get back there. Spending time with friends and relatives was so wonderful. One of my high school best friends said something that completely warmed my heart. She said she had always liked my dad. Sometimes the simplest statements can have the most profound effect on a person. This is someone who knows me. Really knows me.

Most of my friends in Pennsylvania know I grew up in South Carolina but they don't know what high school I went to. They don't know who my homeroom teacher was. They don't know which English teacher taught us the word pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. They don't know what I did after school or what kind of music I liked.

And they didn't know my dad.

Even my kids didn't know my dad. He passed away before they were born. Some people stay in the same community all their lives and won't know this feeling, but there is something very special about being around loved ones who knew you "when".

But even those who knew me as a child / teen / tomboy / animal lover / Cyndi Lauper fan / goofball - don't know me completely. They don't know what I do from day to day, what my home looks like, or what car I drive.

There were lots of questions about my cancer journey. I was asked if I mind questions about it and I said definitely not. I am always happy to talk about my experience. Sometimes I worry I'm talking about it too much and boring people. Those who knew me "when" don't really know me now. So we catch up.

Nobody is ever going to be an expert on who I am. Except for the One who created me. He knows my past, present, future, every thought, every feeling, every intention. And He loves me through all of them.

"O Lord, You have searched me and known me.

You know my sitting down and my rising up;

You understand my thought from afar off.

You comprehend my path and my lying down,

and are acquainted with all my ways.

For there is not a word on my tongue,

but behold, O Lord, You know it altogether." 

Psalm 139:1-4

Sunrise Paddle

I shivered as I lowered my kayak into the water at the lake's edge. It wasn't so much the coolness in the air but the nervous anticipation. This would be my first time going out by myself on the lake and it was still fairly dark. Once situated, I pushed off with my paddle and began to make my way towards the middle of the lake where I thought the view of sunrise would be best. My whole body tensed up every time I bounced over the many ripples coming at me. Not only was it my first time out alone, it was also only my third time in a kayak at all. My husband was on the opposite side of the lake. I knew he could sort of see me, in the dim predawn light - a small, unsteady silhouette of nerves and determination wobbling in his direction. He didn't want a kayak because of persistent back problems that would have made it less of an adventure and more of a torture. But even if he were in his own kayak next to me, every paddle that inched me along had to be up to me. This was something I needed to do on my own.

Cancer. Just saying the word sounded wrong. That's something other people get. Everyone knows something about it and when you share the news of a new diagnosis, whoever is hearing it immediately thinks of someone they know. In fact, when I first heard the news, I immediately thought of a former coworker and friend who had passed away from breast cancer. She wasn't the only person I knew who'd had it, but she was the one who came to mind first. The interesting thing about that is, most of the people I told were reminded of people they knew who survived. Could that be because I was hearing the news from a place of fear and others were hearing it prepared to encourage? Who knows?

No matter how familiar we are with a similar situation, there are some parts of every journey that must be travelled alone. Going into surgery for my double mastectomy, I asked a dear older lady from church to come wait with me until I was taken back. We didn't know each other well but she had been on this journey and she was the one I wanted with me. But even she, as much as she understood, could not go into surgery with me.

People want to help. They try. And sometimes they feel pain and loss at just not knowing how to make you feel better. I remember after each of my chemo treatments feeling so miserable but not knowing how to even describe the feeling. My husband would rub my back and helplessly ask, "what hurts?" I didn't have an answer. It wasn't a feeling that had a description. It wasn't really pain. It wasn't really nausea. I just didn't feel... right. I still can't describe it even though I remember exactly how it felt.

And that's how it is sometimes on our solo journeys. It is so specific to us that sometimes, it just can't be explained. But just because we're on a journey of our own, that doesn't mean we aren't seen and heard - even those things we can't put into words.

"Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered." Romans 8:26

Unprepared

I tried to follow him through the stream but I lost my balance and took an impromptu seat in the water. He helped me to my feet, hastily offering me his own pants and boots in an effort to salvage the situation. He's the only hunting guide I'd ever worked with but I'm pretty sure that's above and beyond normal expectations.


Once I was settled in my blind, he left me alone in the woods. As his truck drove away, I shook my head. What a comedy of errors this afternoon had been so far. Our hunting camp was an hour away so when I noticed that I had forgotten my phone, there was no going back. Then I realized I had also forgotten my flashlight. Thankfully my husband gave me his spare. Then I dropped my Thermacell at some point on the trail and had to look for it in the woods.

I took a deep breath and leaned back as the mud beneath my chair began to give way. As I slowly sank, tilting to the side, I realized I forgot one more thing. My hunting license. Only 3-4 hours to wait until he returns for me.

My husband and I planned our 30th anniversary trip sixteen months in advance. We went to The Great American Outdoor Show, knowing exactly what we were looking for. We had our list of questions and a deposit ready to hand over to some lucky outfitter. We left that day with an official reservation and a year and a half of anticipation ahead of us.

Less than a week later, I sat in a dark room wearing a paper gown and hearing words I never prepared for... "I think it's cancer."

I wasn't prepared for those words. I wasn't prepared for the rush of questions that followed the initial stunned silence. I didn't ask them. How do you verbalize those questions? How do you even form words? I forget...

I wasn't prepared to spend all my time thinking about cancer. I wanted to spend the next year and a half thinking about my bear hunt!

I just started a new job a month ago. I wasn't prepared to take time off for doctor appointments and chemo treatments. I wasn't prepared to call in sick. I haven't had time to prove myself yet!

Shhhh… be still...  Deep breath... Is this meant to prepare me for something?

When my stony path took that unexpected turn, I noticed a few things:

1. Worry is a waste of time. Worrying comes naturally to me. I can spend hours - days worrying if I really set my mind to it. One thing I noticed recently - worry doesn't prevent bad things from happening. In fact, sometimes the worry can be worse than the actual thing you're worried about. For a while before my diagnosis, I would occasionally have this unsettled feeling that something bad was going to happen. After the news of my diagnosis set in, I felt an odd sense of relief. Like - oh, this is the bad thing. Okay now I can do something about it.

2. Community can be comforting. One thing I wanted to do right away was talk to other people who have been on this journey. It's comforting to talk to someone who knows exactly what you mean when you describe a weird side effect or complicated procedure. It's nice to talk to someone who isn't going to get tired of you always talking about cancer. I was blessed with a pen pal of sorts - my friend's aunt who I've never met in person but was going through the exact same treatment regimen with the exact same diagnosis at the exact same time. We texted each other frequently, comparing notes, encouraging each other, and just being there for each other. Neither of us knew more than the other about how to be a cancer patient. We just navigated it together. I'm thankful for her.

3. Kindness can come from unexpected places. It's uncomfortable going out in public when your head is bald and a bandana does little to disguise it. It's easy to think people are staring at you or feeling sorry for you. I don't like feeling like that. But one time a woman approached me and said "I just felt like God wanted me to tell you He sees you and He loves you." Then she prayed for me right there on the sidewalk. Another time, as my husband and I were having dinner at a restaurant, another family paid for our dinner on their way out. We didn't know until they were gone! So even if some are staring, there's a good chance they are also caring.

I wasn't prepared for this journey. But I'm on it and I'm not alone.

"For I am the Lord your God, who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, do not fear; I will help you." Isaiah 41:13