I DOT WUT TO

When I was in high school, I was on the school newspaper staff.  Every year, the seniors got to publish a list their likes and dislikes at the end of the year.  It was so fun to read and as staff we got to cut and paste like professionals (probably using actual scissors) as we read through them.   They were mostly inside jokes or something that alluded to something that went on in 9th grade that forever (or for at least four years) bonded so and so.  At nearly forty, it’s a good idea to have a clear understanding of what you like and don’t like so you can either do more of them or avoid them.  

My documented list of yeses officially started on my birthday.  My list of no thank yous while shorter, is pretty solid - Brussels sprouts, socks with no elastic, cockroaches, empty toilet paper rolls, artificial sweetener, etc.  A few years back when Martha Kate was in kindergarten, she apparently did not want to complete the rest of her work, so she put a big ole “X” over it and wrote the words, “I DOT WUT TO.”  (This paper is framed in my bathroom right above the portrait of Bailey's kindergarten self with a big ole erased pile of poo drawn under it.  Because that’s the kind of mother that I am). So when adding to the “no” list I always think of her big ole “X.”  I had a little extra time to think this week and as I was adding to my list, I realized that there are things that I want to draw a big ole “X” over but they just don’t go away.  Here’s a few: 

brain scans, unsolicited advice, and public restroom hand dryers

It was brain scan week.  That in itself is enough to send anyone into orbit.  This was my 7th one in 5 years so while one would think it may be old hat, it’s so not.  La-ti-da...just lie on your back and relax while you freeze to death with your head in a cage, wearing earplugs and extra face-squishing foam, and let the jack hammers draw pictures of your noggin.  While mirrors typically make a space look larger, the tiny one that is 2 inches from your eyeballs does not.  It does allow you to check your mascara application, but if you look closer it actually reflects into the imaging room so you can really freak yourself out about what they are seeing. I’m just thankful that it’s not recording real-time thoughts.  Around my second brain scan I lay there praying and remembered 2 Timothy 1:7 and that became my brain scan verse.  The “sound mind” part is subjective but the way I see it is that God does not want me to be afraid and whatever is on the other side of that picture, He has given me enough sense to make a decision about.  The good news is that mine is normal (again, subjective) and the other news is that I can’t avoid them because melanoma loves the brain and since I’ve already had it in my spine, a frightening 6 inches from there, it’s kind of necessary.  

As for unsolicited advice, or “free” advice, I’ve been the recipient of much.  These are the sentences that start with “You should...” or sometimes “Why don’t you...” (See also the unfiltered comment).  A cancer diagnosis warrants both, and truly some advice has been really sound and I get my best material from unfiltered comments.  

The tech in the MRI this week asked why I was there and when I gave her the short version, she said, 

“Well, you are way to young to be dealing with all of this.”  

Unfiltered.  

I said, “I thought so too, until I walked into the cancer clinic and didn’t see an age discrimination sign.” 

Silence.  

My exception to the unsolicited advice is when it comes from anyone over 80, because it will either be very sound and backed up by life experience or so hysterically funny that you need to hear it.  The other exception is your mama because, well, she’s earned it.  The bottom line is I can’t avoid this either, so I will use it to my advantage and just refrain from giving it.  

As for the hand dryers.  I’ve used a lot of public restrooms this week.  Those things are everywhere with no paper towel option.  You wash your hands, turn around for the towel, only to see the blower.  Your faced with a decision - push the button or walk away.  For all the racket, there should be instant evaporation, but instead they blow water (or the actual loose skin) around on your hands and then turn off, leaving you dripping and wiping on your clothes.  If you have a small child with you, the child either flaps and sprays water everywhere or wipes her hands on YOUR clothes to avoid the loud noise.  Handwashing is necessary, apparently drying is optional.  Just going to deal.  

Now, onto my appointment on Tuesday.  The short of it is that it was good, really good.  I stand in amazement that the scans are clear.  Nothing there.  I actually just pulled them up and read them once more just to be sure.  Not the tumor in my spine that had once cut off the blood flow to my spinal cord, not the one that was pressing into my airway, or the one in my diaphragm, or my adrenal gland, or the other 10 or so that were scattered around.  Nothing.  Completely melted away sometime over three years ago and I’m holding steady.  Every day is a gift, not promised, but borrowed with the intent to make the most of it.  As my doctor told me, “no one knows the curve on this” because the curve is still being written - partially by yours truly.  My hematology visit, two floors up, immediately following oncology, also good.  My leukemia remains in remission, what my hematologist refers to as a deep remission with stable molecular levels (basically the only way to find any sign of leukemia in my body is to dig through the DNA and then there’s only a tiny trace).  I achieved this milestone about six months after I was diagnosed, but it takes many people three years or so.  We discussed studies that are going on in France that may allow CML patients who are in remission to come off of the drug at some point. Frankly, I’m ok with what I’ve got going - if it ain’t broke, well you know.

So my visit was good, but one of the toughest.  A few weeks ago, I got a letter in the mail from Vanderbilt.  I get dozens of Vanderbilt envelopes - mostly because I owe them money or they want a donation.  This one was from Dr. Sosman informing his patients that he will soon be practicing at Northwestern in Chicago.  I called Stephen and asked him how he felt about it we mutually agreed upon “sick.”  Well, I was angry, but the sick and sad kind of angry.  We just walked around the house saying, “sick.” over and over, only I couldn’t really say it without tearing up.  Big ole honking “X.” 

Sometime during one of those critical life-saving treatment decision times, Dr. Sosman looked at me and said, “Let’s get you well, because I want to see you in ten years.”  I took that to heart but I also took that to mean that he would actually be the one to see me.  My thoughts that day were, “well, ok, buddy if you’re going to talk about ten years from now, I’m going to do my part.” He may not know how much that statement actually fueled my inner cockroach climbing out of the puddle of Raid, but it did.  

Immediately following receiving the letter, I sent Dr. Sosman a text that I was not happy about this and that I hoped he had negotiated my travel expenses into his new salary.  Wouldn’t you want to have me for a patient?  When he opened the door to the room the other day, he said, “I wasn’t sure you were going to come.”  Ha!  He knows me well.  It was a sad sort of visit, but very endearing.  I may or may not have been as worried about holding it together than the actual scans.  We all cried and he hugged us both about four times.  I was hoping to walk away with more clarity on what to do (or a plane ticket) but I did walk away knowing that he has invested as much into me as I have in him.  We have history.  

So, here we are faced with decisions that I DOT WUT TO make.  I wasn’t looking for a new doctor.  I wasn’t looking to continue my medical care in two cities that are not even close to each other or to the one I actually live in.  I wasn’t looking to figure out the finances and logistics of it all.  But what I do know is that it will work out.  I’m doing great medically and I’ve got time to figure it out.  What a great place to be.  God has always provided.  For 1,945 days of cancer, God has provided.  We have traveled to Nashville and home so many times and never once has a need not been met.  

I will use last week as an example.  Our trips are a two day affair.  I go up on Monday, get scans and bloodwork and then Stephen goes back with me for results on Tuesday.  Two oncologists is too much to cram into one day.  The biggest (unsolicited) question I get asked is “Why don’t you spend the night?” or “You should spend the night.”  My reasons are simple - while disrupting my life a little, it minimizes disruption for my children.  They are first, always have been.  To parent small children in the face of uncertainty, fear, and pure chaos is no small task.  We have been at this for over five years.  By God’s grace, our children are fairly well-adjusted, happy, and oh so loved.  My son who was a kindergartner when I was diagnosed, will soon go to middle school.  And, according to the picture my daughter drew in her Sunday School class this morning, she understands perseverence.  What may seem or have seemed to an outsider as a seamless transition between normal life and cancer, is really not all that seamless.  

I have sat and cried with Bailey when he was scared and we both knew that I may end up in the hospital and not back at home later that night.  I have tiptoed through many dark mornings so they wouldn’t wake up and cry with anxiety that I was leaving before school.  I have spent months building back the trust that every time their precious grandparents showed up, we were not going to medical appointments.  So, when I’m washing a baseball uniform at midnight before scan day, signing folders, writing notes for lunchboxes, and packing soccer practice clothes, it gives me peace.  And, when I walk up at the start of his baseball game and he gives me this half smile and wave from the dugout, he knows I’m there, and he’s ok.  I can give him that. When I get to kiss her and take a picture before her soccer practice and reassure her that I will see her after, she’s elated. When it’s “wear owl day” at school and he asks me where his Hooter’s shirt is and I bust out laughing, my entire extra 400 miles is totally worth it.  

And selfishly, when much of my day looks like this:

blue suede shoes because Memphis 

 I'd like to end it like this.

What’s cool is that make this happen, to allow Stephen and me to parent seamlessly, God provided an entire village.  Six different people disrupted their own lives to make ours easier - company, food, practice, dogs, kid shuffle, and lunchdates.  The rest of them are praying, waiting, hoping, and texting to see if we need anything.  The truth is that over five years into this, I have to turn down help because I have more offers than I need.  That is amazing.  So, He will provide.  He always does.  I have quit trying to understand the why and the timing and the logistics but it doesn’t keep me from wanting to draw a big old “X,” over the whole deal sometimes.  But, I am here.  I am breathing, walking, mothering, and living out this miracle I call life.  

Last Sunday, our pastor’s sermon was on how we see Jesus when we are called outside our comfort zone, and immediately following that was our Sunday School lesson on Romans 5 where Romans 5:3 was highlighted in my Bible.  So, going into scan day, it was apparent that A) I am not supposed to be comfortable and B) this has been one big fat exercise in character building.  

Awesome.  Bring it on! 

Thank you for your prayers, thank you for your encouragement, and thank you for never giving up.  Love, KJ

Because Forty.

MSU Cafeteria 1998

Stephen loves it when I write, but he loves it more when I write about him, so the best thing I can think to give him is his very own post. 

Nineteen years ago today, I was studying for some test - probably physics or something to keep my 4.0 streak alive.  (The goals I had back then...).  It was sometime after midnight when someone knocked on my window of my apartment.  By any standard of common sense I should have been scared, but instead I opened the door and let the fools in.  It was a friend and Stephen who just finished celebrating his 21st birthday and was in rare form for sure.  That was the first time we met.  He is the father of my children.  

Our friendship grew from there and he will tell you that I drove him absolutely crazy but he never gave up.  We spent hours together, rode all over campus on our bikes, and worked in the same parking lot.  I was a bank teller and every afternoon he brought the bank bags over from his store.  I could see him leave the store and walk across the parking lot.  He never went inside, just walked straight up to my window to drop them off and say “hi.”  Conveniently, he got an apartment the next semester about 26 steps from my front door.  He looked out for me - pretty much knew where I was at all times even though he pretended not to notice.  I can only pray that there's a Stephen out there for my own daughter when she goes to college.  That year, we met every day between classes outside the cafeteria at the picnic tables.  I sat there with my nose in a book and watched him run around the corner of Lee Hall and then suddenly start walking when he thought I could see him as to make sure he didn’t look too eager.  He did this for a solid year and I never told him because it was hilarious and endearing at the same time.  

Sometime that year, I decided that if we ever said we were dating that would be it.  So, that was it.  He kissed me in the parking lot of Rick’s Cafe and the rest is history.  Done.  

We got married on the hottest day in August of 2001 and the real adventure began.  Our honeymoon was in New York City - also hot, and the first of many sporting events that I would sit through sandwiched between fat men drinking beer and yelling at the bad calls.  We walked all over New York, had a blast, and really thought we were something.   We stood on the top of the World Trade Center and had our picture made but didn’t buy it because it cost too much, but sure had a good time talking about all the tourists in the kiosk pictures and their poses.  At the airport when we were leaving, Stephen opened his door and hit a van.  He was so worked up that he left our camera and our plane tickets in the taxi.  We nearly missed our flight, had to buy more tickets and we were so upset to have no pictures from our honeymoon.  Just a few days later, 911 happened and it was the first of many lessons in our married life that would teach us what really matters.  

In nineteen years, I guess you could say we have figured this all out together with a lot of help from the good Lord.  Stephen Jessop has never wavered in his devotion to me.  He is passionate about a lot of things - guitars, rock n’ roll, making sure people are happy, 80’s hair bands, grass, and grilled meat.  He is most passionate about his wife and his kids.  And, one thing is for sure, he has never given up.  I have singlehandedly through no fault of my own, dragged him through some of the most trying things a marriage could endure.  When my mother died, he cried more than anyone there - he cried for me because I was too numb to cry anymore.  

A year later, we found ourselves where no one in their married life wants to be - in an oncology office looking for options.  He took that bull by the horns and called every cancer center this side of the Pacific, begging and pleading in the way only he can.  Stephen is honest and passionate and people know it when they meet him - on the phone or in person - they just can't not like him.  He started researching cancer treatments then and hasn’t stopped.  He stopped at churches on his work route and went in to their sanctuaries to pray for his wife.  When I couldn’t walk, he had the MRI report in hand and read it to the doctors himself.  Sure, he could have walked away but instead he tattooed my name on his wrist - my signature from his 36th birthday card I gave him a few days before.  

Last year, he walked in and said we were giving back to Melanoma Research and “we” were going to do a race.  I was poorly convinced and poorly motivated but he would not give up so I joined him.  He wore us all out with race plans, but in the end our first race at $42,000 was one of the largest inaugural races they had ever had.  

Today he is 40.  I have had the pleasure of knowing and loving him over half of my life.  He has made me a better person.  I have a son that resembles him in both looks and mannerisms and a daughter that shares his passion for life and his love for music.  I have learned to love sporting events, tolerate rock n’ roll, and accept the guitar fetish.  I giggle when I see him walking out in his pajamas and rain boots to move the sprinklers so his grass stays green and lament with him in August when it’s as brown as a bail of hay.  I roll my eyes at 2 am when he goes outside to check on his Boston butt.  I smile every time I see his watch slide down on his wrist and see my signature there on his arm.  I live with gratitude that 19 years ago, he knocked on my window, found me, and never gave up.  

Happy 40th Birthday, Stephen Jessop!

I love you!

1998 or so

The famous Lee Hall

Call me

Eleven.

Eleven.  Today you are eleven!  

As I write this, I remember the cold January eleven years ago when I couldn’t wait to meet you.  I couldn’t wait to see what you looked like and to hold you in my arms.  You made me wait an extra week so I started learning to be patient really early with you - one of the best things you could teach me.

I am so proud of who you are and who I see you becoming.  This is your last year of elementary school.  I realized that this summer when you were standing in front of the school releasing Nana’s birthday balloons and it made me both happy and sad.  Next year you will go to middle school and it will be full of new and exciting adventures and more independence.  I will learn a lot more about how to be your mother.

This year, I have watched you become more responsible.  You set goals for yourself and work really hard to meet them.  You saved all of your money this year from birthdays, Christmas, leaf raking, and pulled teeth, to buy nice sunglasses and now an iPad which is awesome!  You are much more responsible with your schoolwork this year too.  And, even though you and I have spent hours studying and researching for your social studies projects on Abraham Lincoln and World War I, I wouldn’t trade my time with you for anything in the world.  I love to watch you succeed because it drives you to set higher goals for yourself and helps you have confidence that you can meet your goals.  I  know you get frustrated sometimes but it is always because you expect more for yourself and we want that for you too.  You already have a pretty good idea that life is not easy and good things come with hard work and perseverance. 

Bailey, you just crack us up.  Your sense of humor, knack for impressions, and the way you can sum up a situation - serious or humorous - in about three words is hilarious.  Nothing gets by you.  You notice how people talk, what they wear, and can give a dead-on impression of their mannerisms.  I love the little smirk that comes over your face and the look you give me when something is so funny but it’s inappropriate to laugh in public and how tickled we get later when we talk about it.  I also love how you walk in circles around the house talking to me and telling me about your day, what people did at school, and what happened on the video that you watched on TV.  You teach me how things work and remind me to slow down and pay attention to details.  

You love sports - watching them and playing them and you'd rather be outside than anywhere else.  You have become your daddy’s sidekick at Mississippi State football games and between then two of you, I’ve never seen so much anxiety over a ball and a bunch of grown men.  You also love to eat.  The kids meal days are over for us and I knew this when you ordered shrimp and grits at a nice restaurant and there were no leftovers for me to try.  You watch Food Network and plan when we can go to Guy Fieri’s featured diner.  You educate me on how to use my phone, how to work the TV, and soon you will know much more than me about how to use my computer.  It’s scary but also useful.  And, you sure do love that dog, and he knows it.  I tell him that the only thing keeping him here sometimes is his looks but it’s also because of how much you love him.  

I have watched you realize what it means to be grateful.  You are content and thankful for what you have most of the time.  You are thoughtful and make sure that everyone around you is taken care of - you did great helping your daddy with Christmas shopping this year!  Your teachers and coaches also recognize your sweet spirit and we are so proud when you are complimented on your character.  You keep a watchful eye on your sister which is extra helpful for me, even though she acts like she’s annoyed.  

Bailey, you are a joy! You know how to love, you know how to give, and you have high expectations for yourself and others.  You are honest and dependable and I am proud that you are my son.  We pray that you will grow to love God and love others as He loves us.  

Happy Eleventh Birthday!

I love you, 

Mom

FIVE

21 3/4 inches of growing children

18 visits from the tooth fairy

7 honors ceremonies

2 school plays

1 preschool graduation

2 preschool Christmas programs

10 school Christmas parties

6 church choir programs

5 first days of school

5 birthdays

10 (semi) planned birthday parties

5 anniversaries

2 kindergarten graduations

6 Christmases

5 sets of Halloween costumes

5 seasons of Mississippi State football

9 little league baseball seasons

2 dance recitals

over 50 scans

over 60 weeks of treatments

180 boxes of chemo pills

one unlikely survival speech

countless vials of blood 

one magazine article

three cancers

two surgeries

one pair of worn-in cowboy boots

a few more wrinkles

a few more gray hairs

one tattoo

one amazing race

and countless prayers, tears, laughs, fears, and what-ifs later...

I woke up to 2016.  

Stephen and I stood numbly in a doctor’s office five years ago and he said, “I need you to teach me how to fix her hair.”  I have fixed hair almost every day for the last 1,846 days.  Granted, some days it has looked better than others, but so has mine.  I have also facilitated teeth brushing at least twice a day which is no small task.

Five years.

I kind of wondered what I would do if I hit the five year mark.  The answer is really nothing.  Stephen and I kicked off the Christmas season and called ourselves celebrating in Chicago a few weeks ago.  We took our first trip there together for my 33rd birthday.  Later that year, we were pretty sure we’d never be back.  In 2012, we did go back.  I walked his tail all over Michigan Avenue and up and down State Street.  He never said a word, just watched me walk and was glad I could.  As a trade off, I sat through the coldest Bears game of my life.  We’ve been every year since.  

This year’s trip was not without roadblocks as we ended up in Texas before we got to Chicago.  I sat in the airport laughing at the irony as I remembered so vividly of how five years before I somehow ended up in Texas in a cancer clinic.  The three hour delay didn’t seem so bad this time.  Five years ago, Stephen was begging everyone at the airport to find another flight to make our appointment on time because of a weather delay.  This year there was also a weather delay, a canceled flight, and we barely missed the earlier connecting flight even though we ran from the plane like we were on fire.  We stood at the counter with a businessman who had the last seat but probably would have given it up as he asked, “Do you HAVE to get there?”  Our answer was no.  No we don’t.  We don’t have to be anywhere.  No cancer clinic, no brain MRI, no first opinion, no second opinion.  We can just sit in the Texas airport for 3 hours, drink coffee, and look at the boot store.  Stephen can predict that the band members from Great White and Slaughter might possibly based on his Twitter tour schedule research and disappear to spot them a the Dunkin Donuts.  And then just for fun, I can walk over and say hi to them.  No panic, just an “oh well.”  We’re used to waiting by now.  

My actual cancerversary was spent wrapping up the school year with fifth grade social studies projects, school Christmas parties, and an excited boy and girl who look forward to a few weeks with no reading or spelling and all the joy that Christmas has to offer.  We anticipated celebrated the birth of baby Jesus who forever changed our hope.   We ate dinners with friends and talked about how what happened five years ago brought us together, made us closer, and prepared us for the changes on the road ahead.  We celebrated the life of my grandmother who decided to spend her 98th Christmas in heaven.  I’m sure my mom was glad to have her.  I also took time to blow out my candle on my Christmas Tree cake.  Stephen looked at me and said, “Today is proof that statistics don’t matter.”

This season has not been without thought of what we have experienced and what we are thankful for.  I remember walking into our church’s Santa breakfast five years ago, two days after my world changed with my little two year old and five year old.  I was going through the motions, playing Christmas.  People stared, surprised to see me - most of whom I barely knew but no one knew what to say.  I didn’t know either.  Our family went to Christmas Eve service for the first time and as I watched Kate walk up to the front in her tinsel angel halo, I wondered what the next Christmas would look like. The next year, every ornament I put on the tree caused a pinching stabbing pain from the spinal tumor I would soon discover I had.  

This year, Stephen played the guitar at the Christmas Eve Service.  He strummed, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing...” while my now seven year old walked up in her tinsel halo with the other children.  My now ten year old sat close to me and giggled at the little kids who cried and ran back and forth to their parents.  The service was loud and full of joy, just like a birthday should be.  On Christmas morning we opened boxes that our little girl wrapped - hand colored ornaments, paintings that they had done, and presents that they picked out from the church’s alternative Christmas, because they now understand the importance and joy of giving.  My boy curled up next to me and educated me on iPhones and Instagram because he knows how to love.  She sang to the top of her lungs into a pink microphone while I made pancakes on Christmas morning.  They jumped until they were sore in the freezing cold on a trampoline that they never dreamed of getting.  We screamed and yelled like real people do as we loaded up all the dogs and the kids and gifts to go have Christmas with the grandparents.  

Statistics don’t matter.  They don’t.  When it was all said and done, my chances were approximately zero making me keenly aware that every day is nothing short of a gift.  I have thought a lot about what Stephen said and determined that maybe the statistics do matter.  They have mattered to us more than we like to admit.  They have been the reference point to the miracle we experienced.  Our expectations were so low that up seemed too far to imagine.  My trajectory of forward movement is one based on what could have been.  It’s not coincidental.  God wants us to expect more.  He wants us to expect the miracle.  

There is a saying that life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of moments that take your breath away.  Maybe so.  But, if I walk around waiting for my breath to be taken away, I might end up disappointed.  So I kind of measure the breaths, or don’t try to measure life at all.  I don't worry about if it measures up - just live it and enjoy it.  If I wake up breathing, then it’s a good thing and there’s joy to find.  Some days I find myself breathing deep to get through it or holding my breath for just a minute because that seems more appropriate.  Either way, I’m glad to be living it. 

So, here’s to a happy and new 2016.  May it be full of living, loving, breathing, and immeasurable joy.

Happy New Year!

KJ

Chicago 2015

Chicago 2010

Jesus was human.

manger by MKJ December 3, 2015 Luke 2:11 For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. I've never met a baby I didn't like. There's something so pure and innocent about a baby - their skin is soft and smooth, no wrinkles from worry or gravity. They have perfect lips, eyelashes, fingers, and toes. They thrive on the affection and attention of others and through their innocence bring joy and peace. No matter what the mood of the room is or the crowd - young, old, rich, poor - if you plop a cute drooly baby in the middle, people are instantly happy. As a mother, no matter the problems or stresses of the day, it all seemed to melt away when I rocked my own babies to sleep. Now that they are older, I still take every opportunity I get to memorize their freckles, their eyelashes, their scars from the boo-boos I once kissed.  I also get to hold other people's babies for a living. I have found myself in a career where mothers and fathers entrust me to help the world's most innocent assets. Many of them are fragile - born with medical problems or have special needs that require more care than the average baby.  I have the pleasure of seeing many of them in their homes, but with this comes a raw and real representation of how difficult parenting can actually be. As I sit and talk with them through problems that I have not faced as a mother, I often realize how inadequate I am and how strong others are. Seemingly simple things are sometimes so hard for these families but what is not ever hard is loving them. What also never changes is the way these children love you back. I am always honored to hold someone else's baby and to tell them how lovely and special they are or sit in the middle of a toddler classroom and have a few little chubby-legged babies climb on my lap.  When I think of Christmas, I think of the way God formed a human connection with all of us by sending a perfect baby to earth. He showed us the most innocent and pure way to love someone by sending a newborn - undoubtedly with perfect skin and eyelashes. He allowed that child to walk around among us - the broken, the innocent, the different, the fragile - and to experience disappointment, rejection, acceptance, and love as we all do. I take comfort in knowing that my Jesus was human.  All year in our home, I keep a painting of the manger and a sign that reads, "REJOICE! - For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord." (Luke 2:11). They are reminders to me that Jesus was human too. Kimberly Jessop Emmanuel Class Dear Lord, thank you for showing us love and humanity through the miracle of Christmas. Help us to remember to love others as You do this Christmas season.

Dear Cancer Clinic...

I’ve spent hundreds of hours in cancer clinics in my life.  There is probably not one single place I dislike more than a doctor’s office or hospital.  If there was one single thing that I ever was most afraid of, it would be cancer.  For some reason, the irony of all of this was extra apparent to me this week.  I sat there on Tuesday, Stephen by my side, both of us in our minds playing Russian Roulette.  You can’t help but overthink it.  

After twenty-five hours of waiting, driving, and testing, I walked out of there with clear scans.  Just go back to living - that simple.  Go eat some chicken and go home.  Go do laundry, help your son hot glue his fifth grade planet project and sign all the papers in the take-home folders.  Get your daughter’s dress ready for the daddy-daughter dance on Friday.  Plan your Christmas. Buy your gifts.  Plan your celebration dinner with your friends.  

God has placed me in uncomfortable.  He has done this purposefully.  This was His plan, His Jeremiah 29:11.  He has given me more grace than I deserve and though I have walked out of that clinic frustrated, confused, disappointed, amazed, and dumbfounded, I have never walked out of there ungrateful.  Never ungrateful for the way He shows me how loved I am and how much I have by showing me what it could be - what it has been.  This week more than ever, it was obvious.  The waiting was a lot longer, so maybe I had longer to think.  My introversion kicks in and I usually look down at my book or iPad but this time, for a few minutes, I stared down the hallway and watched doors open and close, people in and out.  I looked out the window and wondered what would happen if I just left now but I was pretty sure that wasn’t an option.  What would happen if I acted on my crazy and just started running?  It would make for a good story, but wouldn’t change anything. 

So in my mind, I wrote a letter to Cancer Clinic.  I decided we are not friends.  Our relationship is symbiotic - we exist on our own but need each other to survive.  (Thank you, fifth grade).  

I’ll visit again in four months, but in between that time, I will have Christmas, I will celebrate birthdays, I will go on trips, and go to concerts.  I will do school projects and look forward to a New Year.  Things will break and I will be inconvenienced.  A lot. 

I will be grateful, because I am.  

Dear Cancer Clinic,

I visited you today as I have over a hundred times.  I know your walls, your paint, your furniture, your chairs, your art in the hallways.  I’ve turned the corner to your driveway and every time I feel my throat swell and my heart race.  Cancer clinic, I won’t lie, you make me nervous.  

I watched you today during our visit, and I listened to you too.  I watched your people.  You see the sickest, the most broken - physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  You see the hopeless.  You see the hope.  You see the beginning and you watch the journey to the end.  

I watched the lady who talked too loud and too close about the sale she got on her new purse.  

I backed up when she got too close.  

I watched the pale lady with the mask who listened politely to her but probably wanted to run.  

I watched the weak and tired lady use her purse as a pillow in the waiting room.  

I watched and listened as the husband read his wife the brochure on the very cancer that I have. 

I watched the young girl with the baby who screamed and fussed until she went to sleep like we all wanted to do.  I wanted her to have a stroller. Or friends like mine that would take care of her baby.  But, then she probably wanted to hold her baby, to help distract her.  

I was one of your youngest visitors today but certainly not excluded.  

I watched as people moved from chair to chair and large waiting room to small waiting room with bags of pills, magazines, and family members that they have drug into this mess.  

I watched them stare at me too.  They stared at my boots and so did I.  I saw the steel peeking through the toe and thought of how funny they must have looked with hospital gowns.  I felt out of place but sort of liked it - because no one can really tell how much I need you.  

I looked down your hallway.  Shiny, waxed floors and rows of doors and hand sanitizer.  I listened to the nurse ask everyone loudly the same questions:

“Are you having any trouble feeding yourself?”

“Are you having any pain?” 

“Are you having any difficulty getting up and down?”

“Have you had a fever?”

I wondered if she ever gets bored.  I asked her if she ever made up questions.  She was  not into humor.   

I listened to the nurses talk about their kids.  I thought about my own kids and how I couldn’t wait to see them.  

I thought about your rooms and then I walked in and sat in one.  Once the door was closed, you could cut the silence with a knife.  Cancer clinic, you do not talk.  You do not distract.  Your paper table is scary.  Your silence is creepy.  I looked at your magazines but was not desperate enough for Golf Digest or the rodeo magazine.  

So, I looked at my phone and I waited.  

And waited.  

Cancer clinic, you have no schedule.  You give us a time to visit, but once we are in your doors, we cannot leave until you say.  You are demanding and consuming. I poured your coffee with powdered creamer and realized there was only decaf.  I was disappointed but drank it anyway and thought of real coffee with half and half.  I thought about how much more pleasant our visits would be if your friends met me on the bench out front and I never came inside.  I’m much better outside.  In the open space.  Less people to talk and stare.  Less hand sanitizer.  Less waxed floors.  We could discuss my scans and blood over Starbucks.

But I stay, like I always do.  I wanted to bolt but I waited for my turn.  

And my turn is good.  Inside of your walls, I am a star.  I shine with crystal clear scans and glow of health in comparison to so much broken.  In comparison to when I was so broken.  

So, Cancer Clinic, you have tools to heal and I need you.  I need you in spite of your unpleasant and your uncomfortable.  I need you to remind me that I am ok and that I can walk out of your doors and continue to live.  I can walk back into my messy life that’s chipped a little, but not broken.  I can walk back into the arms of my warm children who smell like outside and shampoo and school all at the same time.  I am reminded to be thankful that I’m not spending the night, that I’m able to walk away.    

So, thank you Cancer Clinic.  Thank you for showing me hope and broken and healing.  Thank you for teaching me patience and to be grateful.  Thank you for the glimpses of real that I get when I visit you.  Thank you for letting my husband, and my friends, and my God walk through the halls with me so that I am never alone.  

Sincerely, 

Me