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