Rational Fears

We all have irrational fears. Mine may be a bit less rational than yours, though:

• I'm convinced that the man/kid/woman walking across the overpass will throw a frozen turkey through my windshield.
• I magically turn off street lights with my presence, and I worry that my powers will one day become too strong to control.
• I am certain that my retainer will fall into the toilet. I don't have a retainer.

But some fears are quite rational, especially while constantly thinking about stupid cancer. Worrying every three weeks that this time is when the cancer markers start rising. Scared that the heart scan will find abnormalities. Anxiety that CT scans will show that the cancer has returned.

That's the thing when cancer has become a chronic disease: it can be hard to look past the next scan, the next test, the next appointment. Hard to focus on the future. But it's exactly that long-term view that we need to set goals, plan family events, give us hope. We are fortunate to have each other to lean on, to give our family strength.

An old African proverb says, "If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together."

We have come far.

I am thrilled to announce that Liz's latest scans and blood work once again show no evidence of cancer! Her oncologist, the man of few high fives, unleashed this barrage today: "If we could've said what the best scenario was back when we met — this would be it." This is the same guy who wouldn't offer any words of hope for way too many months. And now... Wow.

Your thoughts and prayers definitely have helped us get through the worst times. We cannot always avoid the trials. It seems that God's greatest blessings come by helping us heal from the trials we face, rather than having us avoid them entirely.

God's promise as recorded in the book of Joshua rings true:

"I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee. … Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest."

Today is a day of celebration. We have nothing to fear.

Go Team Liz!

There will always be room for better, but not until there is room for now

Busy summer with trips to see grandparents, lots of fantastic family time, normal frustrations, understandable worries, new job responsibilities, and continued positive news on the cancer front: tests are still showing no signs of cancer, and the treatments keep working! Liz and I celebrated our 15-year anniversary a couple of weeks ago, and we couldn't be more grateful for the journey, even with the problems presented by stupid cancer. It's worth it, and not just because she's hot. Note the bofelfies (both of us selfies) below:



I've obviously been struggling with where to start (again) when it comes to this here blog. Sometimes sharing others' thoughts is easier (and better) than coming up with my own. I read Johnny T's blog post a couple of days ago. It sounds like he is figuring out life in limbo after cancer: treatments worked, he's doing well, but still has to keep thinking about it and testing for it. Sounds familiar.

The author writes that "there will always be room for better, but not until there is room for now." The idea of making room for now has constantly been on my mind since Liz was diagnosed 17 months ago... It's easy (and tempting!) to say "not now" or "maybe later" or "tomorrow" when it comes to sharing experiences and activities, or doing things with the kids. Making room for now is within our control, especially when there are so many things outside of our control. I haven't got the hang of it just yet, but I'm trying: just say "yes".

Go Team Liz.

Reprinted with permission from Johnny T. Original post located at:
http://www.johnnytthatsme.com/top-five-things-learned-cancer/

Top Five Things I Learned from Cancer

August 6, 2014 By Johnny T

I often write about life after cancer, and the things about it that can be a total drag. I do so with reason. The main reason being that people just don’t talk about it enough. It’s easy to read about all these great things that happen when you move on to being a survivor. How the skies are clearer, the sun is brighter, and everything is just oh so wonderful. The truth is that many people find themselves struggling in life after cancer. It can be confusing and taxing on the mind to think everything should be better than before, but still be facing so many struggles. So I write about it often so others know they are not alone in these struggles, and to also seek the advice of those who have been there before me.

But this isn’t all to say that everything in my life after cancer has been a drag. That’s far from the case. There have been many positive things that came out of my experience. Many wonderful things I have learned, the better person I have become in a lot of ways. Cancer didn’t totally ruin me. After all, I’m still here. So to break the cycle a little bit, today I have compiled a list. There are many things to be said about facing your mortality and moving on to a life after cancer and treatment. So today, I bring you the top fie things I learned from cancer.

1) Life goes on - I don’t mean this in the sense that life will go on after cancer. We all know too well that for some, there is no life after cancer. What I mean is, despite that challenges of diagnosis and treatment, around us, life is still going on. This becomes a difficult lesson in acceptance. All around me, for everyone else and including me, life was still moving on at its normal hurried pace. I had to learn to accept this and accept that there was going to be plenty that I would miss. There would be things I wanted to do, my plans, that simply could not be. But I couldn’t expect life to stop for me, or for anyone else. The kids still grew, the seasons still changed, I still got just a little bit older. I had to roll with it the best I could, disabilities and abilities both. And just like life, I had to keep going on.

2) Some things just aren’t meant to be understood - In a brief recent exchange on Twitter, I was talking with a girl who has also gone on to life after cancer. Her initial pondering was this:

My initial response was that I had been wondering the same thing for going on two years. After then saying that she just doesn’t get it, I replied “I’ve come to learn that some things in life weren’t meant to be understood. They just are, as are we.” There is no universal explanation on life. We are just here. While science can research a lot of what happens in life, and religion can try to explain how life came to be, the simple fact still remains: some things just aren’t meant to be understood. To use cancer as an example, we can understand how cancer behaves, and how to eradicate it from the body, but we will never understand why it exists in the first place. Science will tell you one thing, religion still another. Just like death, or sorrow, or unexpected tragedy, we aren’t meant to understand anything. Somethings just are, and it’s another lesson in acceptance. Wasting too much time trying to figure things out will only drive you further away from life itself.

3) It could always be better - This seems a little bit odd, but I promise it’s true. The normal saying to here is “It could always be worse” and that would also be true. But that’s something I learned early on in life, and was only reaffirmed when I received my diagnosis. What I didn’t realize was how the reality of the phrase “it could always be better” would manifest itself. Long before my diagnosis, I wished things were better for myself and my family. Better job, better place to live, better financial stability, better car. Then I was hit with the news of a cancer diagnosis. And I found myself wishing to have better health, better strength, better resolve, better care, better everything at that point. Since then, I have wished for a better functioning body, better days than some of the ones I still have. No matter where we are in life, things can always be better. What’s the lesson in that? Learning how to accept how things are, and always working for the better. There will always be room for better, but not until there is room for now.

4) There is no self in support - It’s hard to do a lot of things on your own. Living with and after cancer is the same way. For the longest duration of all of this, I tried to carry on with little support. I tried to look in myself for strength and for comfort and for understanding. I tried to heal my own wounds and my own feelings. The end result? I failed miserably. I continued on a downward journey instead of picking myself back up. There is no self in support. In the weeks, months, and almost 2 years following my diagnosis, I have slowly learned how to lean on the support of others. Sometimes it’s not easy, but it’s just necessary. Now I have a great network of support that I can call on at any time. Chances are, you aren’t walking your road alone. Someone else is, or has, and there is someone out there to confide in. As long as there is always a someone else, there will never be a self in support.

5) Life simply is - Refer back to number 2 for a moment. Some things are just not meant to be understood. Life as a whole is like that. No matter what we think we know, or what we for fact know, the only great certain is that life is. Through good times and bad, life just is, and that’s better than life not being at all. It’s the most basic of knowledge that can get you through another day, another treatment, another scan. The fact that you are means life still is. And given the alternative, that’s a pretty great thing to know.

Fun to fall down and get back up

My parents came to town a few weeks ago, and on a chilly-yet-sunny May day, we loaded up the van and visited a nearby park. Swings, soccer, football, tag, monkey bars, walks, runs... I glanced over my shoulder and saw Liz fall to the grass. As I stepped toward her, she waved me off, stood up, and kicked the soccer ball to Cohen. She smiled, looked at me, and said, "It's fun to fall down and get back up."

We went back to the cancer center yesterday for Liz's regular tri-weekly treatments. This time around we also met with the doctor. We have never seen him so optimistic and excited for her prognosis! It's all good news: her blood work shows levels completely in the normal range, the recent CT scan shows no evidence of cancer anywhere, and we get to reduce the frequency of another one of her medications. The treatments are working with no indication of slowed effectiveness.

Wow.

Flashback to October 1995, a couple of months before I began my two-year mission service in Germany for my church. I distinctly remember hearing a talk from a church leader, Elder Richard G. Scott, but I hadn't thought much about it since that time...until last week, when I came across the quote again:

"Just when all seems to be going right, challenges often come in multiple doses applied simultaneously. When those trials are not consequences of your disobedience, they are evidence that the Lord feels you are prepared to grow more. He therefore gives you experiences that stimulate growth, understanding, and compassion which polish you for your everlasting benefit. To get you from where you are to where He wants you to be requires a lot of stretching, and that generally entails discomfort and pain."

The message here seems universal. Challenges can hit you like a flash flood. Sometimes bad things happen to good people, not due to any fault of theirs, or actions caused by others. If we can gain the perspective that we can learn, stretch, and grow through our challenges, we will be better positioned to show empathy to others and be more willing to help others get back up after they fall.

Somehow we made it through these past couple of years, through all of the highs and lows. Liz just completed her second 5K last week, she digs up trees for fun, I just finished the Notre Dame MBA, Cohen was proud to graduate from first grade at the same time as dad, Jensen completed preschool, and Eli babbled his way to the ripe old age of 20 months. We are blessed. And it really is fun to see Liz get back up after a fall.

Go Team Liz!

   

Luck of the Irish

Just 1 year and 10 days after diagnosis, Liz finished the St. Paddy's Day 5k in Chicago on 3/15/14. We couldn't have imagined just a few months ago that she would be so strong, so vibrant, and so... healthy! It was 32 degrees, windy, with ice and mud throughout the course, but we made it. Here's to many more races and many more decades to come. Go Team Liz!

But you don't look sick

A couple of weeks ago Liz sent me this text message:

"Sometimes little things are quite sobering and smack me in the face about dumb cancer. I picked out a button up shirt for Eli and it took me 5-6 tries before I could do 1 button. All the while the boys just happened to be sitting on the couch watching me. I tried to act calm and not distressed but Cohen just looked at me so intently like he was silently willing me to do it. Incredibly hard. A seven year old shouldn't have to be your cheerleader."

Cohen's unabashed choice for his school's "Wear Pink Day"

We have a new reality now. We're almost to a year since diagnosis, and although the cancer was obliterated (WAHOO!), it can still come back. Liz has good days and bad days. But when she looks well, it's hard for folks to understand that she is fighting a battle every day. As another cancer survivor wisely put it: "It's not that we are seeking pity, but we need the support of our family and friends...We look healthy. We aren't. We are sick. We are vulnerable. Even if we don't look like it."

How quickly some people forget what she is dealing with, both physically and emotionally. I forget sometimes too. But some people don't -- a phone call, a hug, a ladies night out, her favorite chicken noodle soup magically appearing on our doorstep on a particularly difficult day. These are the people who give her the strength and will to keep going. They remind me of an inspiring quote from Mother Teresa:

"I used to pray that God would feed the hungry, or do this or that, but now I pray that he will guide me to do whatever I'm supposed to do, what I can do. I used to pray for answers, but now I'm praying for strength. I used to believe that prayer changes things, but now I know that prayer changes us and we change things."

Cohen shouldn't have to be his mom's biggest cheerleader, but he is. Each night, if I'm home early enough, I help put the boys to bed. I recently asked Cohen what he wanted to read before going to sleep.

"Dad, can we draw in the cancer book?"

We bought a great workbook last year to help Cohen open up about his questions, worries, and help him deal with the emotional reality of cancer in his home. He drew six boxes on the "Questions I have about cancer" page and filled them up: medicine bottle, germs, IV tubes, bed, and hair. He left one of the boxes blank. I asked him to tell me about each box:

Medicine bottle: cuz Mom still has to get her medicine at the cancer center every three weeks.

Germs: cuz we want to kill them all and make sure cancer doesn't come back.

IV tubes: that's how Mom gets her medicine to keep the cancer away.

Bed: Mom had to spend a lot of time in bed to kill the cancer and have lots of "engery" for her boys.

Hair: cuz all of her hair was gone with the cancer medicine and now it's growing back.

Blank: this one is for our whole family, cuz we love Mom and we are going to be together forever.

Yes. Yes we are.

Go Team Liz.

Ode to Eww

If you just want to read the "how's the family doing" part of this blog post, or if you really aren't interested in the more subtle grossness of my life in general, skip down further and start reading after the line. Got that, Mom? Love you.


I recently took a 16-day hiatus from the gym. There are a lot of lame excuses to explain my absence (work, school, carbs, apps...carbs), and I have since returned. But I think I had a great reason for my lengthy nonworkoutiness. I had just finished a good swim and decided to take an early break by resting in the nearby hot tub. There's even a waterfall, so I let the warm waters caress my head, face, and shoulders. I lounged, I stretched, and I floated. That's when I noticed a leaf in front of my face, so instinctively, I tried to quickly push it out of the way.

It wasn't a leaf. It was poo. And I'm not nearly as tough as I thought I was.

I launched out of the hot tub, and in between dry heaves, told the terribly unfortunate nearby worker about the bobbing bonus awaiting him. He lowered his head, paused, then "thanked" me for letting him know. I then spent the next 20 minutes trying to scrub off the memories in the shower.

Someone told me "at least it was in the hot tub, I'm sure the chlorine took care of any germs or diseases." O ye of little empathy and understanding, it wasn't the germs and diseases I was worried about. It was the floating prize. The one that I touched. The one that I wish had been a leaf.

It brought me back to the time on the Vernal Vipers swim team—pause for laughter—when we had to wait after public hours for the pool attendant to dump a giant scoop of white powder on a sunken brown treasure that was resting precariously on the pool floor. We watched as the disgusting deuce disappeared to the worker's glee: "see, it's all gone!" No, it wasn't all gone, it just turned into a billion microscopic fecal fragments that I ingested for the next two hours. Eww.

So I've started going to the gym again (I will forgive, but I won't forget!), and I intend to add an extra day or two to the weekly workout schedule. You know, so I can hang out more with gym guy:

• Sailor shanty shower singing with the scratchy pirate growl gym guy
• Drip dry locker room gym guy
• Rolling around on the carpet doing "exercises" that look like steamrollers gym guy
• No need to close the curtain when showering gym guy
• Hey that's a cool heart monitor wait a second that's a house arrest ankle monitor gym guy

________________________________

Whew, I'm glad I got that off my chest.

Now... How are the kids and me lady? Great. Really! The exhaustion Liz feels is more because of the "normal" stresses and joys of rearing three young and active boys, managing the household and all of the associated baggage, the boys' school and activity schedules, and her own health and church activities schedules. She keeps getting stronger each day. During difficult days I get a text or email from her with an escapist picture of the dock in St. John, USVI, or a link to a travel review. But she somehow finds the strength and resiliency to keep us all moving forward. What an amazing woman and inspiration to me.

The boys are doing well. Cohen told me last week what he wants to do for a job when he grows up: "Army, marines, navy, PetSmart, Good Will worker, Air Force, jollygist, paleontologist, and scientist math guy." Sounds like he'll be really busy.

Jensen (or "Jenshen" as he prefers to refer to himself) woke up a couple of weeks ago with a night terror, sobbing in his room at 2am. It took a while and a few extra visits for him to calm down, but he finally fell back to sleep. The next morning he told Liz, "Mom, I  have a really really bad dream. It's a Jenshen lobster monster. Every time I close my eyes I see a lobster there." My bad I guess: I took him and Cohen to the grocery store and decided to show them the lobster tank. The nice lady took one out to show the boys. Cohen loved it, but Jensen took off down the frozen foods aisle as fast as his little legs could carry him. I chased him down, but he refused to move within a five-foot radius of the horrific creature. Terrified. Then bad dreams. Whoops.

The good news is that the lobster incident encouraged Jensen to start saying his own bedtime prayers each night. He used to just listen and throw in an "Amen!" at the end. The nightmare got him started: "Heavenly Father, please bless that Jenshen not have bad dreams about lobsters." Amen.

In addition to sea creatures, he is also terrified of fake mustaches. Cohen puts one on and tries to give Jensen kisses while he runs away screaming. Ah, brothers. Cohen also "accidentally" left the mustache stuck to the middle step on the basement stairs, which Jensen unfortunately only noticed on his way up the other night. I had to convince him to close his eyes and run upstairs as fast as he could. Probably not the smartest idea, but that's the best I could think of in the moment. Jensen then comforted himself by hugging Busterd (rhymes with mustard, but used to be Buster), his Fisher Price pull-along puppy. Boys are fun.

Eli is our sweet baby, such a funny boy. He scrunches his face any time we eat or say cheese. His brothers adore him, and nothing makes us happier than when they all play nicely together (usually some form of chase, tag, wrestling, or generally sitting on one another). He's 16 months old already, babbling up a storm, and still enough of a baby that Liz gets her cuddles in.

We're only two weeks away from the one-year anniversary of Liz's diagnosis. And we're 3 1/2 weeks away from the 5K we're doing to celebrate her continued triumph over cancer. Here's to continuing to kick cancer in the face.

Go Team Liz!

No cancellations allowed

Liz has a cough and a head cold, and she kept the baby while I took the big boys to church. Here's the conversation as I drove them home:

Jensen:   "Hey, Dad?"

Me:         "What, dude."
Jensen:   "Did Mom got cancelled?"

Me:         "What do you mean?"

Jensen:   "Did Mom got cancelled again?"

Me:         After some thought... "Are you asking if Mom has cancer?"

Jensen:   "Yeah."

Cohen:    Big brother pipes up: "No, Jensen, Mom gets her medicine every three weeks so the cancer
              doesn't come back."

Jensen:   "Yeah, cuv I don't want Mom to get cancelled."

Me:         "Me neither, buddy, me neither."


 

The break-up

Dear 2013,

I break up with you.

As with any break-up, I thought long and hard about it, but ultimately it is the right decision.  Please know that there were some good times that I treasure. The not-so-good outweigh them, though, so it is time for us both to move on. You probably are not shocked by this news, but just in case I will give you some of the reasons.

January started off with a bang and with such promise! You and I both felt good, our relationship was getting stronger—you were going to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I just knew it. Although it was cold, February came and we were so happy. Valentine’s day was perfect.

Then the end of the month came and I began to sense something that made me uneasy. By the beginning of March I was done with you. Then came April, May and June. Why did you even stay all those months? It was cruel and unusual punishment. Tormenting me. You were this close to becoming stalkerish.

Thankfully the light and heat of summer finally came in July and our future looked a bit brighter again. We had a long, long ways to go but at least we were talking again. With the end of summer and beginning of Fall in August and September we fell into an easy rhythm. Although, I admit, I was still quite bitter that you short-changed my summer. If you really knew me, you would have never done that. Sadly, you blew it come October. And November. There were a lot of good things in those months, but again you had to throw in some not- so-good things. Broken hearts (and rib).

All the cheering of Christmas made December a welcome relief. Thank you for that. Bells ringing, children singing and a most memorable sun shining beach vacation finally helped me to be done with you, 2013.

Thank you for the memories, but please don’t ever, ever come back. Memories are enough. Visits don’t have to happen. Ever.

Yours truly,

Liz

P.S. Oh, and I met a new friend! 2014. We’re perfect for each other.