Four.

Seven months is what the statistics read.  
Four years is where I am.  

Four years.  

I just read my first journal entry from four years ago - actually 3 years and 11 months because that’s when I got the guts to write it down.  I realize that I didn’t start from the beginning.  And, since the beginning is just as miraculous and adventurous as the rest, it seemed like a proper time to share.

There’s a handful of folks who remember this day four years ago - where they were and what they were doing.  For me, it would be my first of many attempts at trying to keep a calm exterior to hold in the Jello inside.  I handed my 5 year old a Lego set from the Target check out I had stashed to keep him occupied so I could process.  I poked a pacifier into my drooly little 2 year old’s mouth so she wouldn’t whine because I couldn’t possibly handle it.  The entire earth was spinning but my world had come to a complete standstill.  I don’t know if they ate that night but I somehow got through bedtime and curled in ball and sat without sleeping for the next 24 hours.  I looked at my life without me in it and didn’t like what I saw.  I tried to imagine how I could possibly teach my children what they needed for life in the next seven months.   

My first visit to a cancer clinic is forever imprinted.  They took my picture, took my blood, stuck a needle the size of a coat hanger through my lower back, and attempted to take my dignity with it.  It was like airport security - sitting elbow to elbow with other cancer people, removing clothes, the pat-down, waiting for the next step to xray your luggage, but instead of looking at the contents of your suitcase, you’re looking at your insides and counting your tumors on the screen wondering how that even happened.  I left with the words, “This is not good, but it doesn’t have to be hopeless” and instructions to go home, pray, and find somewhere else to get treatment.  Not only did I get bad cancer but I got bad cancer with no good treatment options and absolutely none in this town. Nice.

And here’s where it started to get good.  Well, the good part can only be seen in reflection, but it is very good.  My first appointment with Vanderbilt was January the 5th - a month away. When you’ve got that many tumors floating around, yesterday is not soon enough and a month is enough time to spontaneously combust - if not from cancer, from anxiety.  We started with the clinical trial website from the US government and called every cancer treatment center in the US with anything promising or open.  I was not mentally prepared to spend months in California or New York away from my children but I prayed for an open mind and assurance that our decision would be the right one.  

Everyone pointed us to MD Anderson in Texas so Stephen set his sights on that and sweet talked some lady into an appointment on December 27th at 8 o’clock in the morning.  That Christmas will certainly never be forgotten.  We booked last minute flights on the busiest travel day of the year in what would be the middle of a winter storm.  The beginning of God’s provisions poured in and our travel expenses were completely covered.  We did a good fake imitation of Christmas for our kids, but mostly we all sat around on staring and waiting for Monday.  And, while everyone was taking down their tree and watching their kids play with their new Christmas toys, we were on a plane to get after some tumors.  

The trip was nothing if not one comedy of errors after another.  The fear, exhaustion, and impending doom got the best of me and I took that opportunity to check out.  I was absolutely no help to Stephen who thankfully was in control.  We got off the plane in Atlanta and walked by the window and both commented on how it was snowing, then sat down for our connecting flight.   It was canceled.  Of course it was.  Stephen looked at me for signs of panic and got nothing.  Considering what I was facing and what I left at home, I was kind of ok with sitting in the airport.  He was apparently not after all of his work to get me the appointment and I am assuming won us a seat on another flight because my dramatic cancer story trumped everyone else’s need to get to work the next day.  We landed in Houston at midnight - in a different airport on the other side of town.  We rented a car and because he’s awesome, he pulled his GPS out of his suitcase and drove us an hour to the hotel.  

The appointment was equally as awesome as the trip there.  We walked through the main lobby of MD Anderson and were totally creeped out.  I met the nurse, she asked about my symptoms, and wanted a recap of the last 16 days. She was not exactly upbeat.  Her comments were “well, it’s not everywhere, so you’ve got some time” and “It’s a tough battle but some people do better than we think they will.”  I would have bolted right there if I could get to my clothes. The doctor came in and reviewed my case, explained the trials he had which equalled about one that I could possibly do anytime soon or another option of biochemotherapy which I interpreted as, “we’ll try chemical warfare on your body and let’s just see who wins.”  And, the icing - you’ll need a brain MRI before we can do any of this.  Of course I do.  I’ve managed to have cancer 16 days before somebody realized they haven’t looked at my brain.  I immediately got dizzy and had a headache.  

The MRI was scheduled for the next morning and there was some talk about biopsies and consents which I think in the end, we might have left before we got to that part.  We spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly through the sea of people in a shopping mall in the midst of after Christmas sales and trying to process the information we had just heard.  We had dinner at a Mexican restaurant because that’s all there was in that town, and we went to our hotel where I had a complete and total meltdown about what someone might think be going on in my brain.  Stephen told me to take a sedative and go to sleep.  So, I did.  That’s when the hotel caught on fire.  Literally.  There were firetrucks and sirens and a full evacuation of people in their pajamas standing in the parking lot.  We sat in our car for an hour and a half, freezing.  Unbelievable. This is how God likes to speak to me - loud and clear.  

The next morning, I got my first ever brain scan, put my jewelry on, and didn’t pass go.  We headed to the airport 5 hours early because we had no where else to go and didn’t want any more Mexican food or medical advice.  And, that’s when I saw the boot.  The big boot in the sky, that is.  I told Stephen to take a left and because he was now afraid to ask, he did.  “Pull over, I’m buying some boots.” Maybe it was my crazed eyes, but he just said he’d wait in the car.  I’m sure he was becoming even more concerned about the brain scan after this incident.  I walked into 10,000 square feet of Wranglers and boots.  I picked out a pair of Tony Lama’s with little stars on the side - it was after Christmas so there were only two choices in my size.  I bought them, put them on, and threw the box away in the parking lot.  Goodbye Texas, hello boots.  

The short of it is, my brain was fine.  Still is, most days.  I rescheduled my Vandy appointment to exactly the same day that it was in the first place but with a different  doctor, my doctor, who agreed to see me on an off-clinic day only because his oncologist friend in Houston that I had just met, asked him to.  It was the first of many ways God would provide assurance and peace and the first of many realizations that this would never be quick, cut and dry, or in any way easy.  My first meeting in Vandy was different, maybe because it was the third time I’d heard it in a month, but mostly because it was right.  

It was foreshadowing for dummies.  God would say, “Hey, this is what it could look like” and then give us what we’ve got.  My first oncologist could have tried to treat me here instead of shipping me out.  I could have been in Texas for a month at a time, or for weeks a time, but instead I was 3 hours away - day trips that began and ended with seeing my kids.  I could have struggled with which trial to pick, but instead, He closed it at exactly the time I had to make the decision, leaving me with one choice. After that failed, He opened the door to another choice.  And, when I ran out of choices, He took care of the rest.  I could have been paralyzed.  Or worse.  But instead, He put the tumor just on the edge of my spinal cord so it could be removed.  I could have had other leukemias, but He gave me one with a drug to treat it.  I could have had invasive squamous cell or more melanoma but I got a nose job.  The drugs could not have continued to work.  But, they did.  They do.

And, as for the boots.  I wore them proudly.  Still do.  To every appointment, to every scan.  With hospital gowns, to church, wherever.  They are not magical by any means but they did hold me up a time or two.  They might be a little powerful, like a cape.  They make a little clicking noise on tile cancer floors that lets people know I’m coming.  Their heels make me stand a little taller.  The verses on the bottom remind me to repeat what I know is true - the Lord will fight for me and He has plans for me.  And, really they just look cool - even cooler now that they are broken in.   They were definitely the best thing that came out of Texas.  

So on this day, I will celebrate.  For a life that is more than promised, more than deserved.  For the 5 games of Uno that I played with my kids before bed last night, and the little boy who is now almost 10 but got out of his bed to kiss me goodnight one more time.  For the picture I took last week of my husband taking my little girl to a dance where she spent more time waiting in line for candy than dancing.  For the school plays, the choir programs, the constant dialogue of this and that, the animal facts, the jokes from a developing sense of humor, the made-up dances, the obsession with the SEC, the persistent husband with the tattoo of my name, and for the Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cake that I put my four candles in.  

I will celebrate four years.

Happy Cancerversary!