That's Good! Nooo...that's Bad!

Way back when my Littles were actually still little, a very most favorite book of ours to read aloud was That's Good! That's Bad! - a tale of a precocious little boy who loses his parents in a zoo, and has harrowing adventures and misadventures involving animals of all kinds as he attempts to return to his parents. Along the way, the repetitive chorus "Oh, that's GOOD...no, that's BAD!" in variant form plays with the idea that not all initially perceived fortune is indeed fortunate, and not all trouble brings troublesome outcome. Reminiscent of the old Chinese parable which cautions against quick evaluation of any circumstance, echoes of this book have been clattering through my brain for the past many months.

Let me back up. Clearly some time has passed since my last post - even more than I fully realized as I dusted the cobwebs off this old bloggety this morning and attempted to recall my password for entry. Shortly after I'd last written, the very day the movers were packing up our things in the truck for cross country transport, we received the phone call that cancer was again visible in Eric's scans. The doctors changed their recommendation and urged us to stay put, only to receive Eric's response of "I'm afraid that ship has sailed, my friend!" As we drove to our new midwest destination, I worked the phones and (truly miraculously) had an appointment with the lead GI oncologist at a top tier hospital lined up within the week. Eric has been fighting ever since.

We have had many short spurts of hopeful reprieve, followed by the frustrations of "this one tiny spot" demanding further surgical or chemical treatment. Through it all, Eric has continued to work, love, and live with an energy and vitality most healthy humans never attain. More recently, although still bewilderingly tiny in total mass, disease has shown up and the tone of doctor's predictions have changed. We are running out of standard care methods, and most trials require either more disease, different forms of disease, or a genetic marker/makeup that is not Eric's. Early this spring we were told that he likely has maybe a year, possibly two. The grueling and terrible regimen he was put on (to combat TWO CENTIMETERS in total of visible cancer in my six foot eight superhuman husband!) eventually rendered eating nearly impossible, and he decided to take a reprieve to pause and be more present through a family Florida vacation.

This week, immediately after returning, he had blood work, new PET scans, and we go in this morning to learn the results. I feel as if dread lurks around every corner, and am in all honesty bucking practices that I know will bring peace. It is such an awkward walk tiptoeing through what feels like a minefield containing both hope and disaster. I want to cling to the possibility of healing, I KNOW that full and complete healing is still possible, in fact no less possible than on the day of diagnosis. Yet I also would be remiss to not take in to account the possibility that our outcome may be otherwise.

This is where I hear our old favorite - "That's BAD...no, wait, that's GOOD!" We wait for test results that feel so final, but oddly, an easily resectable tumor could possibly gain entrance to an effective trial. Or it could just mean more cancer. And through it all, possibly due to my restless wandering where I have not yet engraved my pathway within His and keep fighting for my own, God continues His refrain of "Trust Me, Today."

In Between Hope and a Hard Place

Y’all. It’s December. As of writing this we’re only a few days in and already it has shown itself to again be the season of Red Cups, food drives, merry carols in every store, and SoCal winter clothes. (Our temps have dropped to the 60’s - out come the jeans, beanies, sweaters and boots!) Elves posed on Shelves are dominating the Face Book feed while many well worn traditions that date back far before them lend comfort and joy in predictable approach to the Christmas season.  

And for four Trickeys in San Diego, the whole world is about to change.

If you're reading this, you have likely heard at some time through this last year and a half our saga as Eric has heroically battled stage four colon cancer. When last we left you, he had just entered into the recovery phase following a drastic liver resection and rewiring of the remaining organ. We were awaiting the regrowth of new liver tissue, and were anticipating multiple scans to show us exactly where the surgical gamble would leave us. Our surgeon said there was an 11% chance of seeing a “clean” scan in the months following surgery (as the surgery itself can stimulate microscopic cancer cells into new tumor growth), and we were full of hope.

Eric’s recovery went well; he's really very strong. Quickly he began to chew through magnesium, which was significant of liver regrowth as it is a building block of the organ. He was able to come home after less than a week in hospital, and that very night we took a crawling midnight walk up and around our cul de sac - first steps of many, eventually increasing in distance and pace as he continued his fight to be well. 

And as he regained health and strength a funny thing began to happen. The first phone call came while he was still in hospital - a men’s group in Texas wanted him to lead a retreat in October, did he think he might be well enough to do so? The doctors said he was doing well, and even if he eventually needed another round of chemo it would probably not start until after October. With their full blessing he said yes.

His first CT scan of the liver looked good…nothing indicated growth of disease, but they wanted to recheck and order a full body PET/CT to look beyond his liver at his entire body. As we received these incredible results, another church contacted him and wanted to maybe talk with him about interviewing as a candidate to consider a call. (In our church, a “call” is the extension of an offer from a congregation to be their pastor.) Feeling renewed purpose and potentially facing a recalculated prognosis, he said yes, simultaneously quite certain that he didn’t want to prematurely shut down something that, regardless of outcome, may be from God and that after a quick conversation in which he may encourage them in their ministry he would likely never hear from them again.

The PET/CT went smoothly enough as tests go. While I was in the waiting room I had my first glimmer of promise (I’ve been asking for one since his first moment of diagnosis!) as I felt prompted to watch another patient who came in for his imaging exams. I saw a much older man walk across the waiting room towards the water cooler with a spry step and a smile on his face. He was distinguished looking, exceptionally tall and quite muscular for his age but still slim, and very little closely cropped hair. The thought crossed my mind of how he reminded me of Eric, a MUCH older Eric. The flicker of a thought passed that I was being shown this gentleman for hope, a window into my future Eric, and a reassurance that he still has a lot of healthy time in his future balance.

The man sat down, relaxed, with his handsome, dark haired, also tall and early middle aged son - they both carried the air of ease, as if they've done these periodic scans on the regular for quite some time together, and within a moment the nurse came to call him back for his scan. I second guessed my first intuition to focus on them, dismissing the silliness of grasping for any hope for promise of healing. BUT…this is the first time in the last year and some odd time that I have felt even anything like this kind of healing-related impression. I continued to discretely watch.

Holding the door open to admit this next patient, the nurse called out clearly “Eric?” Father and son both stood up immediately in response to their shared name, exchanged a brief laugh as the son said “I guess she always means you!” and Eric the Older went back for his seemingly routine scan. Eric Jr. sat down and flipped through a magazine in wait for his father.

Giant tears slipped unchecked down my face as I lingered in the waiting room, wondering at what I had just seen. It felt so big, so significant for all of it’s simplicity. Was it a promise, a coincidence, or simply a small shot of hope?

We waited for the PET/CT results, far more anxiously than I would love to report. After what felt like forever, but was in all likelihood about 3 days, we received a call - everything looked “unremarkable”, with the tiny exception of an area in Eric’s liver which they were highly certain was residual inflammation from his recent, significant surgery. He had moved into the patient category of “surveillance,” no imminent treatment was necessary and we were to schedule another PET/CT to take another look in a couple of months. I told Eric through even more tears how happy I was at his being so very “unremarkable!” 

Within the next two hours we received another earthquake of a phone call…the church in Decatur Illinois, that we were contentedly certain we’d never hear from again, wanted to fly Eric and I out for a series of interviews; they were still interested in considering him for their senior pastor position.

I began furiously Googling anything related to Decatur Illinois, and overall the results weren’t too pretty. I read statistics and tales of racial tensions, economic decline, environmental concerns, high rates of addiction, and the infamy of The Informant. What good could possibly come from Decatur? But Eric and I have agreed and encouraged each other not to shut down possibilities where God is moving, even if we don’t want or understand it, and He seemed to be moving rather clearly in this situation. And no matter what else I uncovered online, I couldn’t escape the overwhelming sense that Holy Spirit was moving powerfully there. I decided maybe God’s purpose was that we encourage them in their process, and prayed fervently for them and the three other candidates that were coming that when they meet they find their right pastoral match.

But as I was making my rational and highly unbalanced lists of pros and cons I forgot a couple of fairly important things. Firstly, the “what good can come…” line has been used before, much to the necessary correction of the asker. Also, there is much foolishness in MY deciding God’s purpose, every. single. time. And finally, a huge one - the trend in our life thus far has been that every new significant move in ministry has followed traumatic yet miraculous birthing of new life. 

Eric took his first call as a pastor almost 15 years ago while our impossibly tiny preemie girl was still in the NICU…and we were on an airplane flying cross country to our new church in SoCal when she was only nine days out from her four month start in the hospital. A couple years after that, following six months of bed rest and and this time only about a week in hospital, we found ourselves again at a new congregation in San Diego with our newborn son by the time he was less than a month old. Do I dare hope that the new life that has been birthed through this year long fight using poison-filled needles and on prayer-ful knees carries the same fullness of promise as that of a nascent babe? And as much as I want that to be the story that I am being given to write, one of God sized movement and full and complete miraculous healing, is it possible that the deeper story is in His beautiful and loving prompting to continue to trust Him each and every day no matter what?

Eric and I went to the interview, met many incredible people, and on our return flight I added an item to the scant plus column of my Decatur lists…I think I love them. Whatever the future may hold, I felt knit to the hearts of many of the individuals we had met, as well as their church as a whole, and I prayed fervently that God would make it clear to them the man whom to invite into their ministry.

Once home in San Diego we went to Eric’s new oncologist for a post surgical follow up, and were told that he was to schedule a second PET scan in mid December, but other than that was not in need of treatment - there wasn’t anything they saw to treat. Later that happy afternoon the phone rang…St. Paul’s leadership had unanimously chosen Eric and wanted to solely present his name to the congregation in voting to extend the call of Senior Pastor.  

The following two weeks were a dizzy blur of wonder, dreaming, terror, bittersweet remembrances, and a solid dose (for me, at least) of denial. For a time I was able to remain happily ensconced in glitter and hairspray through tech week for our school’s production of Cinderella, but as soon as the curtain fell on final bows it was time to address reality. That very same morning, Eric had announced to St. Mark that he was accepting the call to St. Paul’s. My strong-in-any-locale (but truly hates being cold) Man, this city-loving (because, seriously, the best shopping) Calirado girl and our beach-soaked SoCal kids were moving to Illinois…to the not-Chicago part of Illinois. 

So that brings us to today. These days are packed with boxing up our every possession so we can truck it thoroughly across America. Filled with moments and events to hold tender hearts overflowing with love, shared memories, and sadness at our imminent parting. As we practice loving well in goodbyes it is excruciating to tear away from the very people and places that have been sewn into our shared existence which shapes the fabric of this life. How can we possibly express how much everyone means to us, how they’ve carried us, loved and shaped us in the life we’ve shared? So we press in to the even more Firm Foundation, the One who has adventures beyond our wildest imagination in store for those who closely follow Him, and encourage everyone we must leave soon to do so as well.  

And we do it all with hope. I know that while there is every evidence of God’s plan in our California exodus, and He has flung doors wide open in places we’d never dreamed, that there is no guarantee that cancer is forever behind us. We move in between the very real hope of clean scans, renewed energies, and new life altering callings and the hard place of the painful releasing of a life and people we’ve LOVED and the future unknown. I bask in the exquisite privilege of facing these things side by side with Eric, however hard they may be, and am overwhelmingly thankful for the health that he, today, has.

And I wonder at the hindsight we might one day gain in considering this in-between-the-unknown time. It is my hope that with daily, hourly, minute to minute practicing of trust in our Great and Always Good God we can look at what felt like the hard place and ask “Where else do I brace myself for blessing?”  And hope-fully laugh at what we find.

1G0D

Summer is now in her last (hot!) throes, and I am feeling madcap launched into yet another school year. My repeated refrain has been "I'm not ready!!"

And a LOT has happened since last I've written.

It has been quite on my heart to share this part of our story in writing, but every time I feign to begin I have allowed anything from the actually urgent to entirely nonessential to thoroughly interrupt my intentions. And so, tonight, I will share a slice of our story in retrospect. Fair warning...there are a lot of somewhat boring insurance details in this one, but hang in if you will...they serve a purpose.

In April, the decision was made to extend Eric's chemo on a lesser dosage for an additional three months. Due to a cacophony of further events, we, as a result, lost access to the UCSD system and as a result of that, the surgeon who had been the most consistently hopeful voice of expertise in Eric's care.

I fought the ensuing insurance battle as best I could, and played the HMO game having been given the assurance that when this round of chemo was up, we could again revisit the surgeon to discuss liver resection.

Now one quick word on resection...it is a drastic, highly detailed, not always available for a variety of reasons (patient's presenting disease, surgeon's skill, etc.) It is also the ONLY consistent path in publication for stage four disease to reach full remission/NED status. Pretty much, to our understanding, the people who have been able to fully beat this from stage four have likely gone this path. It is also, from that very first week or so of learning of Eric's diagnosis, the only option that fully "felt" right.

In May it was determined that the lesser chemo wasn't working, and the disease was growing. Treatments with increasingly involved side affects and decreasingly effective rates of success began to be discussed. Prognosis of shorter and shorter terms began to be thrown around, and it was at about this time that I asked the insurance company to allow us to see the original surgeon for an updated opinion. And then things began to get a bit squirrelly. Even within the HMO approvals began to have inexplicable delays, and at one point I was told that a request wouldn't be written because "we just know it will be denied...so we won't even write your referral request." When I asked to be referred regardless, I was willing to take a denial, I was told in no uncertain terms that they absolutely would not. (Denials can be legally contested, as opposed to ambiguous spoken refusals to even attempt referral.) And as the hours of conversation and pages of notes added up...the disease in Eric continued to grow untreated and unchecked.

At this point we made the decision to go as an out of pocket patient to the surgeon for a second opinion. It was a little frightening as the office visit alone could easily cost upwards from $800-$900, but we figured with the stakes we were dealing with it was worth it. Because of the rigamarole we had already encountered, it was now the end of the month. We had a wild plan with slim margins of time to work with...and it's success hinged on a "yes" for surgery from the world renown liver surgeon. We had already visited another liver surgeon who told us Eric's case was inoperable, but we both felt it was worth asking.

The UCSD surgeon looked at Eric's films and still saw possibility. In fact, his survival percentages, although still small, were growing  even from previous conversations. Instead of a picture of bleak, quickly decreasing health with perpetual life long chemo, with resection he saw room for long stretches of treatment free health, if not a tiny possibility of full recovery. Where we had earlier in the month been told to begin to resign ourselves to maybe another 2 years, this doctor spoke of "touch ups", if needed, 5-10 years down the road. Our wild plan was gaining fast momentum.

In the car after the visit (after which, by the way, the surgeon knowing our situation DRASTICALLY adjusted his fee!) I felt a bit giddy with possibility...and began to consider what I needed to do to try to get coverage for Eric to have access to this surgery. It was a Friday afternoon, and Monday would be the first of the month - if we wanted to even try to get Eric in for surgery anytime soon, we would have to set our plan in motion and drop our insurance company that very afternoon. We made the call from the car, and started the process right away.

A diagnosis of stage four cancer, without having any insurance, is a terrifying thing indeed. When I could start making phone calls that Monday I was told we could possibly get some coverage at the fastest in maybe three weeks, but it would likely not start for at least another month, maybe even two. That would have, at the earliest, put us into July. We needed active insurance that would include the UCSD system and surgeon in order to even reserve an operating room...which with his schedule would be at the fastest about a month away from the day we started to request a date. So, I told everyone who would listen that I needed to have insurance approved, valid and set to go by Friday. Most people either laughed or audibly gasped and emphatically told me that there was absolutely no way that could be done.

But here's the thing. I didn't just make up Friday.

From the get go, in praying this surgery has felt like the best option for Eric. And in praying over this part, Friday was the day I was given to ask for. So I did. Every day, for hours and hours, keeping copious notes, from the beginning of their office hours to close. I started each morning asking God who I needed to call that day, and I didn't stop until I got through that day's list. And as each day's list was completed, I stopped. I didn't look for more to do, I waited until the next morning and repeated the pattern...ask, call, stop. And through it all, I prayed as well that I not get impatient, insistent, unkind, or hopeless. I asked that my heart be delivered to the other side of this project intact and able to love. Because insistent and driven me, when I don't get my way, is anything but loving.

Wednesday we were accepted into Anthem Blue Cross, but were told we would have to wait until July 1st for it to be active. I told them I needed it active by Friday. They said that even their fastest appeals process would take even longer than that. I appealed anyways.

Friday came and my "to call" list was very short...in fact, God had me wrap it up mid morning without any more answers and I began to get a bit concerned. He then told me to do math with my kids - we were trying to wrap up the school year, and needed to plow through quite a few lessons. So I stopped. Somewhat hesitantly, but I wanted to stick to my commitment to listen and stay in love. Even if I had to do math.

The kids and I worked on their math for hours. I began to nervously look at the clock, knowing that business hours for more easterly time zones were coming to an end. The phone rang at 3pm, closing time for some of the offices on our case. The completely awe stricken voice on the other end of the line told me in amazement that our appeal had incredibly already been returned (and they "had NEVER seen this happen!!") and we were approved...we had active insurance. They didn't think the system was physically able to generate our codes until Tuesday or Wednesday, but technically we were insured. I almost cried.

I hung up the phone and it immediately rang again. This time it was another department...the one in charge of generating ID numbers and codes. They wanted to call me because they "truly didn't understand how this could happen, it NEVER had before!" but we had a contract code assigned to us. As I took down the numbers the tears came even closer. I had to hold it together though...I needed to find the number for the surgeon's office, to see if I could catch anyone and start the process of setting a surgery date.

But as I hung up the phone, it immediately rang again...it was, of course, the surgeon's office. They "had been thinking about us just then, and were curious if I had made any progress toward getting insurance taken care of." Within minutes we had a surgery date, and as I ran to tell Eric the good news, the tears fell unchecked.

Now...are you ready for this? Take a look at our contract code - I had to take a picture because it just is too good to be true.

1G0D

However we have felt throughout this last year, He has still been so good. He has been Present, He has been Provider, and has carried us through.

1G0D

After the surgery, in which one of only two surgeons nationally who are even able to perform the degree of resection that Eric needed removed 70% of my husband's liver, the surgeon told me "We just did something beyond the cutting edge of medicine...there's a reason the other doctors told you this couldn't be done, because it isn't."

1G0D

And we wait now for morning...Eric had a CT scan today to give our first peek in to what has re-grown in his month since surgery. We will get the results tomorrow when we meet our new oncologist (recommended by our incredible surgeon), and are PRAYING for clean healthy liver tissue with not even a single cell of disease. 

1G0D

It is our greatest hope to move from this year of survival into one of revival! To shift phases and embrace health. But whatever the morning brings, may we follow God's daily plans for us, keep our hearts soft, and love well.

Cancerversary...One Year in Numbers

It hardly seems possible that a year has already flown by. One year ago today we took our sleepy selves to urgent care for a quick remedy to Eric's odd stomachache, and one year ago as they kept us there the most dreaded C word became a part of our everyday lives.

Having had a twenty four week preemie, I remember the paces of revisiting mental landmarks through the years following a trauma, pausing with thanks or sadness as I considered where we were or what we had been doing at the same time that year. This summer I again felt pangs of rememberance as I considered the sweet days of "not knowing" we had shared the last time we were in this part of our journey around the sun.

But today itself passed fairly quietly. My thoughts have been more centered on the sheer number of unexpected things that have been fit into this last year's calendar...

3 Surgeries removing...
4 Organs and installing...
1 Port
1 Primary Tumor with
"Innumerable" Liver Mets
2 Hospitalizations
12 Rounds of Chemotherapy
A Few Sleepless, Tearstained Nights
4 Tesla3 MRI's
Many additional CT scans and MRI's
3 Oncologists
2 Transplant Surgeons
2 Hospital Systems
2 Insurance Companies
50+ Pages of Notes from...
100+ Hours of Telephone Conversations to get...
1 Yes. Well, maybe that could be counted as a few more yesses. But one big one.
30 lbs Eric gained and then lost, largely due to steroids with treatment.
30 lbs I gained and haven't lost. (Blech.)
1 Week for our kids at Camp Kesem, which was amazing for them.
2 Weeks in Texas for the kids and I to immerse ourselves in family.
5 (I think) Trips to Disneyland...Our Happy Place
1 Brief Getaway, just Eric and I, to Wisconsin of all places!!
So Many Dr. Appointments
Hundreds of self injections for...
1 Blood Clot
1 Clinical Trial
Hundreds of Thousands of Dollars Billed
Tens of Thousands of Dollars Donated (I can't even.)
Countless Prayers, Acts of Love, and Expressions of Support
1G0D

I know this doesn't even cover it all, but these are the things that readily come to mind. I have been thinking, too, about Thalassa's vision, a year ago last night. She later painted what she saw that night over Eric's abdomen, when we hadn't yet ANY idea of the severity of what was really happening and I thought she was being quite dramatic for an upset stomach. What rest has come in this last year has been solely through an indwelling of the Peace that Passes All Understanding, and we continue to wait with hope for full and complete healing.

Hard Things...a guest post by Thalassa

 
This post was written by Thalassa as an essay for school. She brought both Eric and I to tears as she shed light into moments of how this experience has affected her. I think she should consider starting a blog of her own! But in the very least, she is always welcome here. :)

Hard Things  

            This summer, I was exited for my whole world to change as an 8th grader, but my world changed in a whole new way no one would ever suspect. One Sabbath Day (day of rest and relaxation), I was woken up in the middle of the cold dark night to see my parents worried faces looking down at me. “Is something wrong?” I asked startled. “Dad is going to the hospital,” mom replied, “he is having some stomach pain, he will be fine. Nana and Poppie will be here soon.” (Nana and Poppie are our grandparents.) This comment was met with my brother’s wide eyes starring up into my anxious parents’ faces, and both of us held on tight to them. In a few minuets, they were off in the car and my brother and I were waiting in an empty dark home. A few days later, Eric (my brother) and I were sitting in a bland but clean hospital room, the kind that smells of strong disinfectant, next to my dad in the bed. I was staring in horror at the wall next to my dad, as my mom, in a heartbreaking tone, explained that my dad was just diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer which had spread to his liver, and he maybe had 5 years to live.

            Immediately, my mom sprung into action, and in a little while, had a fully functioning plan with the cancer center at UCSD. Dad was going to have lots of chemo and then, if all went well, a liver resection. A plan was in place, and dad could leave the hospital but our lives were changed forever. We began to cherish every moment we spent together, we began to pray more to God for healing, and whenever we could we would use our new annual passes to go to Disneyland. But even at Disneyland, the feeling of loss never truly went away. In everyday life between trips to Disneyland there was still work to get done. My math bar kept growing, and schoolwork from school kept piling up. The everyday challenge of getting in the right mindset to do school was hard. I wanted to shrink away and hide, to cry and dwell in self pity. Instead I ran to God, Whose grace and mercy held me and washed away my fears. Then the first chemo day came. My mom and dad sadly trudged out the door into the cold of dawn to get poked with needles, and to be filled to the brim with poison. Eric and I were left at the house, to do school alone while our grandparents looked on. But, God was with us. Dad came home from chemo tired, and feeling drowsy; we never knew if he needed to sleep or could stay awake for a little longer. And I, a scared little girl, could just wait. Still, I got some little goals done. I sang my heart out in musical theater, trying to escape the icy grip of fear but mostly failing. Also, I learned how to ride a bike which has been a goal of mine for five years. 

            Cancer is one of those things that you have to take on day by day. Sometimes we just cried, sometimes we got a lot of things done but as long as we had God we were just fine. Pretty much nothing I thought would happen this year went the way I thought it would. 8th grade I think is safe to say, was the worst year of my life. Despite that, I still kept my grades up in the A range. And I learned how to deal with hard things - pray and love the people that are around you instead of attacking them, even if you feel like it. I still shared my “world famous coloratura” in the theater, and pedaled faster then everyone else in my bike class on two wheels. Working through difficult things is hard, especially when it keeps going with no end in sight. And it’s still going - the newest update is that my dad’s tumors in his liver are getting bigger so liver resection might be thrown out the window, and that the chemo has stopped working. Even with this news, my family still has hope. I have learned to, even through hard things, truly pray, have faith, and love others.

LOST...and Afraid

It has again been a while since I’ve written…I’ve had a number of posts cross my mind, but I’m finding that the energy and concentration/creativity it takes to flush them out into something cohesive and understandable doesn’t come easily when I’m fighting fear. And these past few months have been quite consumed with fighting fear.

What I have been more diligent about is shows. There have been many evenings where the most the four of us could muster after engaging in our respective battles of the day was a solid session of binge watching. I’m certainly not claiming that this is the very best coping method, but it is one we’ve employed. We’ve traveled the world with the Amazing Race, uncovered the mysteries of time and space alongside the Dr. in his TARDIS, and most recently found ourselves LOST.

I’m the only one of the four of us who watched this during it’s first go-round; the kids were so little when it originally ran, and Eric was still steadily advancing his drinking career. One thing that, oddly, caught my attention from the pilot episode all those years ago was how Jack handled fear. 

     “

          Well, fear's sort of an odd thing…the terror was just so crazy. So real. And I knew I had to deal with it. So I just made a choice. I'd let the fear in, let it take over, let it do its thing, but only for five seconds, that's all I was going to give it. So I started to count: one, two, three, four, five. Then it was gone. I went back to work...

                                                                                                                                               —Jack   ”

Over the years that somehow stuck with me, and in scattered situations I tried this method out - take it in, feel the fear, then force it out. I don’t know that it has ever worked all that well for me, but what I’m recently finding is that when given even the slightest bit of reign, fear is a frightful adversary capable of lightening fast exponential growth. Through these last months, it feels there has been so much lost and so many things to fear…the time frame we had hoped for Eric’s surgery was pushed back somewhat indefinitely and chemo was extended, we lost access to the medical system that had become Eric’s “home base” and were moved back into the system and oncologist that had originally told us there were not many options available to him, we’ve lost large portions of any semblance of “normal” in our day to day living, and I fear for how that wears on every single one of us in unique ways, I’ve lost the dreams and plans I had for my last year fully homeschooling my daughter, and just last week we received news that the maintenance chemo that Eric has been on for the last two months has lost it’s effectiveness. That one more than anything, given even just the slightest number of seconds, can bring me to growing afraid.

But if that’s all that I focus on from the events of the last few months, I’ve also lost perspective…for many, many things have been gained. Memories of laughter and family walks and days at Disney, watching our children perform in their fantastic school musical, experiencing the swelling joy of our daughter accomplishing a goal she set for herself this year and finally learning to ride a two wheel bike, the kindness and generosity of both strangers and friends, five precious years of sobriety, and only just yesterday the addition of another year to our son’s running life count.

What I have been finding to be true for me in handling fear is that while it may be natural, understandable, and in many cases even seem fully reasonable…I have to let it go. And this isn’t just a random release into the ether, but a moment by moment invitation for Perfect Love to cast out all fear. The two cannot coexist. In the places where I find myself so fiercely clutching fear, rather than giving it seconds to grow I have to ask for it to be released and I look for the love. Or, I look for how I can love. 

And do you know what happens? I begin to lose things again…my narrowing of perspective and full insistence on how something (or everything!) must be done, my lack of patience with everyone around me, and my bitterness, however entitled I feel I am to it. Only then are these lost things replaced with a growing love and wonder. Only then am I even able to begin to clearly hear and respond to God’s direction for me. Only then can I be effective, and know true peace regardless of circumstance.

This week there will be many opportunities to continue to hone this growing realization and practice. We will get results from CT scans to show us if the cancer has spread beyond Eric’s liver. We will meet with multiple surgeons to discuss options (which will be greatly influenced by the results of said scan), and with the oncologist to discuss non-surgical options. I will make many, many phone calls to continue the campaign for Eric’s access and insurance coverage, and the kids and I will do our best to begin tying up loose ends so we can finish out this school year learned and intact. 

Learned and intact. In my opinion that sounds so much better than lost and afraid.

Happy Fifth Birthday!!!

So this year, on May 2nd in the middle of it all, Eric turned five. Here, in his words, is how he got to five years of sobriety. I love you, My Husband, and am so very proud of you.

Eric's Five year celebration...our good friend, Ken, gave him his cake and the most generous chip I have seen to date. (Will post Eric's share separately.) So proud of you My Love!!
Posted by Sara Trickey on Sunday, May 17, 2015

Here are Eric's own words on five years of sobriety. Simply put, he's amazing.Eric was also celebrated today at Church...five years of sobriety embraced in a place where he has pastored for twelve. That simple equation shows me that while God's Grace is wholly sufficient, it's an incredible thing to experience His people living grace saturated lives as well.
Posted by Sara Trickey on Monday, May 18, 2015

Ravel and Fray

The mechanical whir of his chemo pump breaks intermittently into the night quiet...I feel a visceral reaction to it every single time. This methodical interruption keeps a steady flow of poison coursing directly into My Love's heart in forty second intervals, a series of blasts that are both harming him before my very eyes and, hopefully, giving him his best medical chance at beating this beast.

We are so sick of cancer.

It's wild what you can become accustomed to, and we have fallen into a terribly uncomfortable cadence of life that includes biweekly chemo, a slowed pace necessitating lots of down time with just a few bursts of high activity, and much exhaustion resulting in many naps (on Eric's part) and some telling signs of ravel and fray (largely on mine). Sadly, it's often not very lovely.

I posted a video update on Monday, and went outside to record so that it would be a prettier setting than the grey drab of treatment rooms. Eric wasn't up for being filmed, but with new information at hand I wanted to get a few quick details out to friends and family. I gave a short monologue, ran back into the cafe to grab Eric's breakfast (incredibly, he actually eats during chemo), and headed back downstairs to him. It wasn't until later, after posting, that I watched back through the video myself, and my first thought was I look so tired.

(This is my accidental selfie, when I thought I had turned my phone to video. It was on "square." Thankfully I didn't talk too long before realizing it.)




In addition to being tired, my stress tells include a general malaise toward or outright neglect of any tasks that require scheduling and consistency - sorting/filing mail, straightening up our home, timely arrival to events, replies to phone calls/email (I'm sorry), and a myriad more. Creativity feels impaired - our Christmas tree, while still up, is all but undecorated. Well, except for three paper snowflakes, which are actually sheets of the children's old homework we used to practice for a Children's Church project.

Oh, and this...we missed removing it when we assembled our new tree, and decided to leave it on and just pretend it was an ornament. Because sometimes things like that make me laugh.





But quite possibly my very best high stress tell would be periodic outbursts of strong emotion. This has looked like crying in the middle of Sprouts over meatballs, and more tears, of joy, in the midst of small accomplishments or extended kindnesses. It has taken on the shape of a voice in the crowd (erm...mine), calling out the injustice of an individual's lying to the Catalina Express ticket taker while trying to jump line and board first. It was entirely unnecessary, and I wasn't really all that invested in boarding order, but all too quickly words flew out that I wished I could immediately rescind. On another night, I nearly ruined an attempt at a "normal" evening out with friends by screaming "HE HAS STAGE FOUR CANCER!!!" in the middle of a crowded concert at a fellow, albeit insensitive and not entirely without her own share of fault, concertgoer.

Thankfully, my friends love me anyways. Even if I embarrassed all of them. Especially Eric. But he has continued to mock scream those words at me periodically ever since that night, so I'm not quite so sad for him.

Here's what's hard - the ravel and fray, for all that they might be normal, are proof positive of the degree to which I am trying to carry so much of this myself. God continues to whisper "Trust...trust Me." And there are so many places that I know I just am not. This blood clot complication has tucked itself into a crevice in my brain, and has burrowed deep. I feel afraid, until I surrender that fear and replace it with love and there I am able to find peace...until I give fear purchase again.

In previous situations I have asked God for a promise, for specific words from Him that I can hold on to through the painful parts. With each of our children He gave me verses that I clung to with a vengeance in the face of every odd and statistic, knowing that He had promised that they would live. I have asked for the same promises through this, and He has told me no. That we've already done difficult things in that way before, and I am being grown into somewhere new. He continues to call me to trust. And I continue to tell Him at least daily how much I don't like it.

But after Monday, when I felt so very full to bursting of worry, fear and doubt, I again remembered to turn it over to God. I remembered how little control in all of this I have anyways, even if cancer weren't in the picture. And I began to see how much I was trying to force through on just my own sheer will and wanting. I released it, again, to Him. Immediately He reminded me that He is moved by His people's entreaties, and listens to their pleas. That restoration is His, and we are able to move in true purpose only after having a humbled heart. And that The LORD, He is God. He didn't give me a definitive promise of healing, but He spoke.

Tomorrow we meet with the surgeon. He has determining say on whether or not this blood clot will delay or fully waylay surgery. I don't know what the next step will look like, but I feel that we are on another precipice of change...our great desire is that we move into a phase that includes surgery. More than that, that Eric be completely healed. It is all so out of my control. But for my part I will continue to entreaty and plea before God, I will seek wisdom and listen with careful detail to what we are told, and when the ugly tells of ravel and fray make evidence of themselves yet again, I will, hopefully, ingrain just a little more deeply this hard learned lesson of trust and surrender.

Another Seventeen...

...Eric Trickey at seventeen (the very tall man in black, first clearly seen at second 42.) I want to put this here so I don't lose it!

 

Post by Hobbs Basketball By The Numbers.

The Miraculous and The Mundane

Seventeen.

I remember that age so well! Filled with potential, adventure and promise - I savored the days, wanting to make them BIG and memorable, while I nearly burst in anticipation of what was coming next. I started college, graduated from high school, redefined relationships, soared high with accomplishment, experienced great devastation, and made some decisions that, unbeknownst to 17 year old me, carried life long impact. I felt powerful but small in the face of unlimited possibility. It was exhilarating, and the age I carried in spite of the passage of many years as "truly me" for a very long time.

Seventeen.

This morning we awoke to our seventeenth wedding anniversary. Eric and I have laughed about "seventeen years of wedded bliss", and decided our true breakdown rather includes a year or two of newlywed shock, about ten years worth of sheer gutting it out, and five of beautiful, joyful delight. What's funny is that through all of it we loved each other fiercely...but for a stretch there were many days that felt more fierce than lovely.

 Ever since Eric's diagnosis I have been thinking about our vows. You run through with such quick certainty for better or worse, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health - till death do us part. I am often quite the optimist, and so while there was a part of my mind that acknowledged the possibility that the less desirable of those pairings could surface, I couldn't imagine with any particular definition what anything but the more enjoyable options might look like.

 

We, of course, would be brilliantly happy. The potential, adventure and promise ahead was saturated with possibility and I couldn't fathom a situation that our love couldn't conquer. I was so blinded with anticipation of what could come next that I wasn't prepared for the gravity of goodbyes to what had been; I cried through much of the first night in our new home while the moving van, fresh from Colorado, stood sentinel outside.

Prior to marriage, Eric and I had never lived in the same state, let alone the same home. We spent a summer together in the Colorado mountains as camp counselors, but were both romantically entangled with others at the time. Our relationship was one of immediate and lasting friendship, quick courtship, and lightning fast engagement. We racked up $500 phone bills (remember when that was even possible!?!), and I longed for the ability to just call to him from another room and hear him answer.  In my imagined scenarios he would, of course, always answer immediately, simply enamored with his lovely new bride and be completely interested in whatever she had to share/request/require - didn't our phone records prove how very valuable we held every little thing the other had to say? How much more would we love sharing every experience in person!

But, as every single married person reading this will know, that's not quite what it looked like in real living. Occluding the flashes of wedded bliss there were real dishes that needed doing, real money to be earned so that real food could be eaten on those dishes and a real roof kept over our newlywed heads. And, to my great dismay, there were actually times that I realized that my beloved husband wasn't really even listening to me! In those early months more tears were shed, harsh words were flung (as well as a few dishes!) and my visions of exclusively living in the realm of better/richer/health came crashing down.

Seventeen.

With seventeen comes a bit more perspective. Over the years we have finally learned to work on our own stuff. We've, with intention, acquired a few skills to make this marriage thing work a little better. We've grown closer to our Creator and understand that the only way either one of us will have anything of worth available for another, is to operate out of our overflow from a relationship with Him. And I've come to believe that the sum point of matrimonial promise reduces down to The Miraculous and The Mundane. 

Marriage is so much less about finding the elusive "perfect" person out of the world of options, and so much more so about how you become shaped in life together. This is the one with whom you will sit front row witness to brilliant interruptions of the miraculous, and the monotony of the seemingly endless mundane. How we do both the miraculous and mundane will form who we are, and through each of those experiences we have great opportunity to change.

The mundane of a daily job - and my perspective of drudgery or delight. The mundane of housework - and my perspective of resentment at the ones making the mess or thankfulness for family and abundant provision. The mundane of daily childrearing - and my frustration with the unrefined or elation at realized growth. Through seventeen years we have shared these and millions of other mundane tasks, to do's, and activities, and if I can share one secret learned after their accumulation it would be this - real joy is hidden in how you approach the mundane. Choose to find the joy tucked deep in the mundane, for these are the tasks that shape our very lives. By nature the mundane is there, will continue to be there...until it isn't, and what's wild is that the mundane everyday little things are the first to be missed when they're gone.

But we also get to experience with this one person the miraculous. Bills paid when there was absolutely no way to cover them even a day before. Children carried and born out of your passion for each other, and delighted in as they come into their own. Healing. Recovery. Transformation. There are moments when all you can do is sit tight together and hold on to one another for dear life as the miraculous happens, often when you least expect it.

At seventeen I feel we have only begun to appreciate the miraculous and the mundane, only recently uncovered a "truly us" that is powerful and strong. I want so very many more years and the chance to look at everything that we have grown into now and laugh at the silliness of beginnings. I want to continue to experience the exhilaration of a life lived well alongside of each other.

 

I love you, Eric Trickey. I am beyond thankful that you are the one with whom I experience both the miraculous and the mundane.

Happy Seventeen.

Thanksgiving Pie!!

Oh my goodness...Friends, you are looking at the physical embodiment of love. 

Last year I had Thanksgiving Pie for the very first time. My dear friend, Blue Skye, personal chef to stars, made this for our November Supper Club. Flaky, crumbly crust, homemade cranberry sauce, tender turkey...it is all things yum. This year being my first GF Thanksgiving, I have been obsessing for two weeks over the idea of this delectable concoction, with calling and requesting the recipe from Skye on my perpetual-but-not-quite-completed to do list. (Did I mention that all this delicious is gluten free as well!?!)

Late tonight I received a text from another friend on her way home from dinner with Skye and family, asking if she might possibly be able to bring by a Pie over for our family. YES!! Can I even tell you how very loved and cared for I am feeling right now? Without any mention or having been asked, the very culinary desire of my heart has been met...I just love how Holy Spirit prompts and in love The Body responds. Thank you, my friends, for loving us so well!!

And as I am snitching still warm tastes inconspicuously from the edges, I think I will need to call for the recipe tomorrow. At the very least, with a big THANK YOU!!

The Thing Is...I DON'T WANT THIS!! (The "c" Word, Part 2)

It's been a busy while since I've last written - the Seminary Wives' Retreat went very well and was so much fun, the children's show was amazing and is now wrapped, and the painstaking cadence of chemo has been strung throughout. Tomorrow is a big day - the first peek inside since having started chemotherapy, and I have had echoes of our previous fight for insurance coverage in scheduling it. This week we also paid a brief visit to the hospital where Eric's diagnosis and surgery occurred, while visiting his dad after a neck surgery, and randomly ran into both one of Eric's surgeons and post surgical nurses prompting many emphatic hugs and How are you?'s.

It reminded me of the first week of all of this cancer business.

Evidently, there is a particular phrase that has reached frequent status in my personal usage. "The Thing Is..." spoken with particular emphasis on the word "thing", and followed by some declaration or another, can apparently be heard escaping my lips quite often.

Back in August, in urgent care, as we became more clearly aware that we wouldn't be leaving as quickly as planned, I began to mentally benchmark the places that salvation from what seemed to be shaping up could beautifully occur.  A mistaken identity due to a swapped test, an infection masquerading as tumor, carte blanche miraculous healing - each and every consulted expert, test and procedure felt rife with possibility for good news.

And each report stunningly came in with nearly worst case scenarios.

Hopes were kindly, although hesitatingly, permitted and then dashed procedure after procedure...I was escorted by the GI specialist himself to a private office to discuss his colonoscopy findings. Not good, but technically not a final diagnosis until pathology came back. When pathology confirmed cancer we moved quickly on to the necessary surgical colon resection (the tumor was blocking his appendix, which was threatening to burst), and his surgical team met with me, while he was in recovery, sharing particularly grim news. During their time in his abdomen they had a solid visual of his liver...and it showed visible evidence of metastasized tumors throughout. They took a biopsy of one of the tumors, and while path needed to officially confirm diagnosis, they were very certain of what it would read. I immediately asked about liver transplants as an option, and they said that in the US that is not available to anyone with metastatic, stage four disease. I asked every question I could think of and tried to force my brain to brilliantly uncover the information necessary that would unlock the hidden solution to all of this. They responded with great sympathy but few answers - while quite expert in the area of surgery they performed, we needed to speak with oncologists for more exacting prognosis information. It was late at night, and the remnants of friends and family members waiting for the last OR occupants overheard some of our long conversation. I was met with many tears, words in attempt of encouragement and well intended embraces as I passed back through the waiting room to the bleak hospital hallway. I breathed slowly and deeply so I could continue to function in sanity, and squared my shoulders to head back upstairs and meet Eric in his room - this night, at least, we still had some work to do. In order to heal, he would need to walk, and I could focus on helping with that.

After a long and sleep-sparse night, Eric had taken a couple of walks and was finally resting. I needed to grab clean clothing, shower a bit of the stale off of my body, and try to eat a little non-hospital food. As I drove home a song, Overcomerby Mandisa, began to play - I had not heard this song before, and come to think of it have not heard it many times since, but that morning the lyrics opened the floodgates. I sobbed nearly the whole way home, through my shower, and until I physically couldn't cry any more. I began to talk to God, audibly explaining exactly how I thought all of this needed to go and finished with a resounding near wail "The thing is... ... ...I DON'T WANT THIS!!!"

I felt nearly overwhelmed with fear. What-if scenario flashes of terror, loneliness and loss came in vivid and rapid sequence. While Eric lay sleeping in a sterile hospital bed, I flung myself onto our days old rumpled bedding in noisy sorrow and lamented everything that was unfolding.

And then I was quiet.

In that silence I finally heard what "sounds like a thought", as God lovingly and patiently asked me "Do you trust Me?"

The flood of what-if's returned in rapid succession. I forced them back with a "Yes! I trust You to heal him!" But He replied "Not do you trust Me TO, Do you trust Me?"

I tried again, "I trust You FOR complete healing...", "I trust You WITH Eric's health...", "I trust that You WILL save him!" And with each attempt I was overwhelmed with conviction regarding my 'hangers-on'.

"Do you Trust ME?"

And from that day, for me, my answer to His question has been the litmus of my battle. Am I trusting in our (excellent!) team of doctors and their support staff? In a particular medicine, plan or procedure? In insurance? In a diet, supplement, or environment? In Eric? In my own self?

The Thing Is...each day, in each situation within that day, I have the opportunity to answer His question. Where does my trust truly lie? Tomorrow, as my Love is injected with more chemicals than I even care to consider, as scans are made of his still strong body, and as we wait for more answers to our endless questions through this cancer ridden journey, I will choose to trust in the One who already knows every outcome. And repeat as often as I have to until it can be complete with no 'hangers-on'.

October Fall

For the second year in a row, Eric and I have been able to take about a week of October to visit fall. We left the aftermath of a recent SoCal heat wave and drought inspired water restrictions for a few days in America's rain soaked and lake spattered Midwest. We've sampled many variants of Wisconsin cheese, reconnected with old friends from the seminary, tucked in a couple local tourist spots, enjoyed work and play with dear friends also collected from around the country, and eaten more sausages and brats than any human needs to ingest in such a short time span. All while feeling like we have been able to cheat an extra week from the cadence of chemo - it has been beautiful.  

And it has carried some hard. As much as I don't want to dwell in the mist of the past or the imaginings of the future, I remember last year's fall in New York and how blissfully carefree we played through the city. I wonder if we will have the same ability to frolic next fall, when we plan to return to the city that never sleeps. The shape of this coming year is still so unknown, although I do know that in reality, that is true of every year, every month, every single day. There is both a beauty and a hard to recognizing this unknown more frequently than before.

I am currently on a tiny puddle jump of an airplane connecting my way from Madison, Wisconsin to St. Louis, Missouri to speak for a seminary wives retreat. I am so excited to meet and spend time with the women there! And yet every time I have an engagement to speak, in the days immediately preceding the event I get caught in a period of rough. Yesterday morning it arrived with a vengeance.

What is silly is I often forget about this bout until it is quite on top of me. Or, maybe even more silly, I think I have conquered whatever shape or form it has previously taken, and therefore must finally be immune. In previous shades it has appeared as "I have absolutely NO idea what I am doing!!", or, "I cannot stand in front of everyone looking like THIS!", and, "I have zero credentials to be telling anyone anything...what am I thinking!?!"

But yesterday it was a bit different. It started as a niggling discontent that quickly blossomed into agitation. I put on praise music, to connect with God and begin to localize the source of my ire, but my usual feed had been replaced with a recorded baptism service. I listened, a tad annoyed (ok, I was in the shower and couldn't get to it to turn it off and grew increasingly annoyed), for a short while as one by one a stage full of individuals declared their love for the One True God, until I huffily dripped my way across the room to shut it off. This was not what I wanted - how can a girl connect with God which all this talking going on!!

My heart felt just under the very surface of my skin, and a few pesky tears fell as I applied my makeup. I was focused on everything that still needed to be done that day (our conference, finalizing my Power Point, and a very important fifth step sit down with a sponsee), the impossibility of the timing of it all, and I ultimately landed most heavily on the fact that I would be missing Eric's next chemo due to travel arrangements. Eric returned from his morning coffee run to a teary me,  hugged me tight and falteringly offered "Do you just want to stay in the hotel this morning and miss the session?"

But I didn't...I wanted to be with the precious people we were about to return to. "Good mornings" were exchanged, "How are you's" answered honestly, and more tears fell. I was enveloped in love and prayer. And during one specific prayer, asking for protection and peace, I felt my entire spirit drench with peace. Simple, extravagant, beyond understanding peace. I adjusted plans and released a vital item from the day's to do list, and received grace from the individual I was not going to get to. And the day went beautifully on.

And now I'm on my way, hurtling through the sky over the pastoral fall Midwest toward expectant ladies, bringing only what has been prepared through our mess and what I can testify has been done in me.

And God. Not that I'm bringing Him, per-say, but He will be there.

The thing is, God has only ever exceeded expectations. As broken, messy and doubt filled as I am, He always meets his kids when we call to Him...in fact He was there all along. And however  He uses this weekend, my part is to go, to be, to speak what He has done and release all of the rest. And every single time I have been privileged to do those simple things in the past, He has transformed them into outright amazing things.

If you are a pray-er, please cover us this weekend. Please pray for the incredible not-yet-friends that I am about to meet. For our loved ones, theirs and mine, in whatever circumstances surround them, that they are well at home. That these brave women who are about to be launched out into ministry are met exactly where they need to be in Holy Spirit Power. And that by that same Power I am able to stand and speak Truth, in full peace and love.

The "c" Word (Part One)

I had absolutely no way of knowing what the winds of change would blow in to my contented euphoria within the next short 48 hours...a gale force that made the possibility of moving to New Jersey meekly sigh in comparison.

What had already seemed to be a stormy summer, wherein the planned was repeatedly usurped by the urgent, was really only harmless preamble.

I asked, begged, that every possible outlier misconception could be true. A freak infection, paired with post alcohol induced cirrhosis. Even, as was kindly suggested (by someone for whom this WAS the case) rare liver "freckling".

I see now, in hindsight, that they knew on sight.

Let me back up a little...

This year I have been grappling with a diagnosis that has carried with it some unwanted change. I have Hashimoto's. It is an autoimmune disorder that wreaks havoc on the thyroid, which in turn affects every single cell of your body. It expresses itself in lovely ways that include excessive weight gain (and the inability to lose it), extreme fatigue, cystic acne, hair loss, mild to debilitating joint pain, brain fog and memory issues, hormonal fluctuations, and a myriad of other fun symptoms.

In February I finally met a doctor who listened to me and did not simply assume or flat out claim that I was lying to her about what I was eating - one previous actually told me "You really only just needed to stop sneaking bites of macaroni from your children's plates!" Really. I have in the last five years COMPLETELY overhauled nearly every single item that is ingested or applied to my body, run rounds with HCG, cut sugar, carbs, altered exercise regimes and even changed our cookware and storage to eliminate hormone influencers. To seemingly no avail.

Then I met Dr. Sarah Dalhoumi, who after drawing a nearly infusion necessitating amount of blood, was able - no, willing to look further into what exactly was going on. And a nearly 17 year battle with Hashimotos was the culprit. The good thing was, much of what I had already changed was what would best fight it (which in part, had helped mask and thankfully prevented some of the symptoms). The bad thing, in my opinion at the time, was that I needed to eliminate gluten entirely, as it mimics the antibodies that cause the autoimmune flare ups. I also started to take natural dissected thyroid medication, as well as maca supplements, a special supplement for a MTHFR genetic mutation, and a heavy hitting probiotic.

I immediately left that appointment and ate an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies. Actually, two. (In case you were wondering, Samoas and the peanut butter chocolate ones - I think they are called Tag-a-longs now.)

But the next day, I was on it. Back on it, with the new inclusions. Even gluten free. (I have not had "real" bread since February!!) Follow up bloodwork some months later showed progress, but the MTHFR mutation (which affects each cell's ability to metabolize and understand basic necessary nutrients) had room for improvement. And the next step was to add injections.

Self injections.

And I'm, admittedly, a needle wanny.

It was the end of July, the summer had been less than smooth, and I had to start stabbing myself in the buttock with a needle every three days. I wanted to see the results of balancing and reversing what my body had been fighting, within itself, for so many years, but it felt extremely dramatic.

Or maybe I am a bit dramatic.

I watched videos on YouTube for hours about how to properly prepare the injection site, painlessly (yeah, right) administer the injection, read what sites (either buttock) were most effective in receiving this medication...etc., etc., etc. I finally worked up the nerve to try the first shot, and when I had finally done it I felt such a surge of adrenaline (in part from the first dosing of the medication, in part from my accomplishment) that I literally burst out of my room, tripped and stubbed my toe on the carpet in the hallway. After...kind of...shoving my mother into the linen closet. (Sorry, Mama.) But, I did it!! And then I realized...in three days I would have to do this again.

During this entire time, God was reminding me of how He had told me, a VERY long time ago, to write through all of this. Through the years, every time I asked for miraculous healing and deliverance from especially the weight, he would answer "No, you have to participate in your healing. And I want you to write about it. But when you do, you will be blessed." I still argued, and didn't want to explore, in any way that could be even remotely public, all of this.

A few shots into my new regime, about a day after our family's explorative evening out, my husband came home from church with a mild stomach ache. There had been a potluck that afternoon, which newly gluten free me had skipped, and I teased him about whose food he must have eaten. He went to bed fairly early, which is not entirely uncharacteristic of him for a Sunday night  as his introverted self needs much refueling after the full expense of extroverted energy his "on" day requires.

Our daughter came to me that evening with a vision she had...we have this summer been exploring the Gifts of the Spirit in Children's Church, and she described to me in great detail what she had been shown.

I thought she was being a bit dramatic.  I wonder where she gets it.

I told her, however, to share with Daddy how she saw Holy Spirit near his belly - present, comforting, and healing. He smiled, thanked her, and sorely rolled over to try to get some rest. Around four something, he woke me up and asked if we could go to urgent care. Our family Sabbaths on Mondays, and he wanted to see what they had that could ease the pain to allow for a restful and fun day. The thought was run in early, get out quickly in time for maybe some Sabbath donuts on the way home.

Our "Super Quick" run into Urgent Care

But as that fateful Monday morning wore painfully on into a ploddingly difficult week, our daughter's vision took on an even more significant meaning than I could have ever imagined. Eric didn't really have careless coleslaw food poisoning after all.

Cancer. Stage Four. Metastatic throughout his liver. And all too quickly, the entire world as we knew it was turned completely upside down.