Posts tagged ‘cancer’
I want you to know, brothers, that what has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel.
Philippians 1:12
Well, the big day is here. For at least six months, I’ve dreamed of what this day would entail. Last year, it was a hard, emotional day. I actually titled my post “My Personal 9/11.” I had so many emotions, and many of them included shock and pain from being diagnosed a second time. But as this day neared, and the reality that I’ve shown cancer who’s boss for 10 years now set in, I have become overwhelmed with joy and excitement for this day.
As I’ve thought about what to share on this annual post, the word that kept rolling through my mind was “redeemed.” Everything can be redeemed.
Everything can be Redeemed
“Redeem” is a churchy-word these days. Except when it comes to coupons. When you “redeem” a coupon, you give the clerk a slick, glossy piece of paper and in return, you get a benefit. Sometimes it’s $1 off, sometimes you get an item free. But once something that seemed worthless (a piece of paper with a bar code) has suddenly been redeemed and gone through the store’s checkout system, all of a sudden it has extreme value.
As I look back over my 10 years on this cancer journey, I have an abundance of joy this year knowing that my cancer is being redeemed – and only through my faith in Jesus Christ. What has seemed just hard and painful, and often worthless to me, has been made glorious and new because it’s been sent through the filter of Jesus Christ and the Gospel.
Opportunities from Cancer
God’s redeeming my cancer – and He’s not done yet. He’s opened up innumerable opportunities for me to share my faith and the Gospel with others. He’s given me an outlet and a way to connect with people who I would have never met otherwise. He’s helped keep others healthy, as I LOVE getting random Facebook messages from people asking me about their poo. He’s given me the experiences of a lifetime – whether it’s marrying my caretaker, modeling for a calendar, getting a tattoo, or even dropping the puck at a hockey game. And the biggest redemption in my book thus far; He used my second diagnosis of cancer to put on us on a path of domestic adoption – a path that’s recently let us to the baby girl we will be adopting within about a week.
10 Year Cancer-versary
God is good, and today, on my 10 year “cancerversary,” I sing his praises louder than I ever have before. As we sang in church this morning, “Oh God, you are my God, and I will ever praise you…” tears streamed down my face. A song of strength, as I’ve sung this to myself over and over to get through some of the hardest days. But also tears of joy, as I will soon be singing this same song to my daughter so that she can know and love God – and sing of his redemption in her life, too.
To all of my friends, family, physicians and support network who’s been with me for over 10 years, today I express my deepest gratitude to you. Thank you for loving me and supporting me on this journey. And while I had dreams to make this day a big celebration, or even put on a big fundraiser for the Colon Club… I felt it was best to keep it simple and point all things back to the Cross. That other stuff can come later.
As the verse I opened with in Philippians says, I count all things that have happened to me (including a young colon cancer diagnosis) as an opportunity to further the Gospel. I plead with you today, if you’re not sure of your faith, to send me a message and let’s talk. My faith in Christ alone has gotten me through my darkest days, and I guarantee that whatever struggle you’re doing through, whatever suffering you have, Christ is just waiting at the door, waiting to redeem your hurts, too. If you know Christ, but you’re struggling right now, don’t give up. Christ has you in His hands, and He will get you through this. He will redeem whatever struggle you have, too.
For I know that through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ this will turn out for my deliverance, as it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ will be honored in my body, whether by life or by death.
Philippians 1:19-20
January 23, 2011 at 5:15 pm Danielle B
I’ve pushed this post away for a long time. While it’s no secret to many who know me that infertility is an issue I face as a result of my cancer treatment, I think the layers involved surprise us all. I tell my story for a few reasons:
– writing is healing
– others out there will be facing the same thing too
– there is a Peace that passes all understanding available to all
The story starts here. I woke up, somewhat foggy, to my parents gazing over me in my hospital bed. Although I didn’t expect to hear that doctors had found cancer again, the look in my parents’ faces wasn’t too convincing. The good news was that indeed, no cancer had been found on this second surgery that suspended my ovaries into my abdomen. The bad news was that the surgery itself, performed to save my hormone function before radiation, had just made me medically sterile.
My mom looked like she had seen a ghost. My dad looked so guilty. All the while the doctor reminded them that this was a life or death situation – she had to focus on saving my life at that point. My ability to create future lives was null. They were upset, but as they broke the news to me, my 17-year-old self wasn’t bothered. I was happy to be alive, and parenthood was so far off my radar. I figured that it was one less hurdle I’d have to deal with.
I lived with this perspective for many, many years. Even when I got married, Mike had been with me through all of this and was supportive. We knew what we were getting into (or not getting into) as we tied the knot and discussed family planning. We saw our situation as special and unique. We felt invincible. I was thankful for a testimony and a story of survival. We’d tell people that we were planning to adopt one day when asked about kids. We “high-fived” over the fact that I’d never have to be pregnant. It was our special treat, all until it started to hit me one day.
Whether someone has faced infertility because of cancer or not because of cancer, the emotions are the same – they just come at different times. As we started to research options for adoption a few years after we were married, I took notice of how many agencies addressed the emotions tied to infertility at the beginning of their orientation meetings. Early into the process, I would shrug it off and feel so thankful (and unfortunately prideful) that I didn’t have to go through the pain of infertility – the feelings of mourning, loss, depression, jealousy, and oh so many other monsters. I knew early on that I was infertile, we skipped the years of trying with no result. But as the years have gone on, our personal family tree has grown, and many friends have maxed out our church nursery’s capacity, I’ve begun to understand the stories I once saw on those adoption orientation videos. I am no different. My invincibility has slowly slipped away. I’ve realized that nobody who faces infertility is immune to what comes with it.
As our journey to parenthood has become something that we really consider and start to want, we’ve had to face some big issues. I’ve had to drop my pride and acknowledge that I do feel the sadness and grief when it comes to this issue. While I’m not particularly devastated that I can’t carry my own child physically, I do get sad sometimes when I think about how we’ll miss out on the experience in general. The “she looks like you,” or “when are you due?” or “feel him kicking here,” comments will never be guided our way. And while in complete honesty that IS hard on some days, I have come to find one thing that helps.
Sinners become free when they accept Jesus and recognize their sin. Alcoholics become sober when they recognize their addition. And as an infertile woman, I’ve found so much healing in identifying and recognizing one big word: LOSS. For so many years, I’ve tried to be Super Woman and let all things bounce off me. And in a way, you have to do that if you’re going to get through surgeries, treatments, scopes, scans, and more surgeries. I thought it worked the same way with emotional issues such as infertility. But I’ve thought wrong. I can’t be bullet proof toward everything.
I’ve finally come to terms and accepted that I feel loss over this issue. A loss that isn’t only mine, as I know that our families have to feel some of this loss too. And while it is sad, it is hard sometimes, and it’s downright frustrating, accepting our situation has helped me start to pick my head up and look forward to what’s ahead. We do have the opportunity for a very unique path to parenthood. I don’t have to go through a physical pregnancy to become a parent. And in the meantime until that day does come, I get to be Aunt B to so many kiddos who touch my life in such special ways.
I share my story not to gain pity nor admiration, but to be honest with one of the deepest-level issues that my cancer has touched. I don’t talk about it much in person because it’s hard to know what to say. It’s not like someone has actually died, yet in a way the emotions are still the same. Plus, the last thing you want as an infertile person is to make a fertile person feel guilty. And while that seems silly, it’s more common than not.
I can’t really tie this up with a pretty bow and say that the issue is dealt with, and I face it no more. But I do share that I’ve come through the phases of indifference, then denial, then mourning, then jealousy, then bitterness, then sadness, then accepting the loss, and now to looking forward to what’s ahead once again. I know that at any point I might jump back into a former phase and have to work through it all again. And while it’s a battle that I continue to face, I know that just like the scar running down my abdomen, the pain associated with it will fade over time.
God’s got big plans for us. I know that with all of my heart. And while some days might be an emotional bump in the road, I still hang on to the knowledge that all of this is part of His perfect plan and has happened for a reason. One day, this will all make perfect sense, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
A quick answer to questions I am asked often:
– Yes, we COULD TRY TO have our own biological children if we chose extensive infertility treatments. We’re uncomfortable with this high-risk, pricey option and have always planned to look into adoption.
– Yes, I still have a period. Moving the ovaries up saved the function, just made the natural path of the egg longer, thus making it (near) impossible to conceive naturally. The surgery was successful in moving the hormones. No, the surgery cannot be reversed, and if it did, it would be more extensive than trying to extract the eggs would be.
– This was almost 10 years ago. Now, many doctors encourage young patients to preserve eggs before treatment. I think enough awareness of survivors losing fertility post-treatment has helped people now facing similar situations. I would recommend to anyone who is younger and of child-bearing age to consider preserving eggs/sperm before treatments. You don’t have to, and search your heart and what you feel about it. But – I recommend at least exploring the options and being confident in a decision you make – not a decision that is made for you.
October 16, 2010 at 11:03 pm Danielle B
I recently completed a course called “The Seven Levels of Healing” hosted by my oncology office, Kansas City Cancer Centers.
I was initially introduced to the 7 levels class by my treasured Nurse Kim. Actually, the last conversation she and I ever had was about this class. She lit up the room with excitement and hope as she talked about the opportunity to offer this course to all of KCCC’s patients. She had gone through the class herself and absolutely raved about it. After that day, I was sold, but had not signed up yet. After her sad departure from this world, I knew I had to go through it and not wait another minute. Not only had I been facing some issues that the class could help me with, but it was a way to honor my friend and keep her work going.
When I signed up for the class, I was nervous, excited, and clueless about what was to come. I saw a counselor this summer for several weeks and was curious if the class would cover the same topics. It did cover some of the same topics, but offered me a totally unique and surprising experience that I could have ever imagined.
The course is broken up into seven levels:
1. Education & Information
2. Connection with Others
3. The Body as Garden
4. Emotional Healing
5. The Nature of Mind
6. Life Assessment
7. The Nature of Spirit
Each week offered me a new perspective on how to handle life with cancer. I walked away realizing that my body is a garden, not a machine, that must be carefully tended to. I was reminded about the power of our thoughts, and of unharbored bitterness and forgiveness. I had a host of others cheer lead me through some frustrating test results one week, and I was faced with the uncomfortable situation of thinking about my personal bucket list. I was encouraged that the secular class covered the role that the spirit plays in our physical healing.
This class was absolutely fantastic, but what was even more awesome was the group that I went through the class with. As a teen survivor, I have not been one to jump on the “support groups” train in the past. I have never been against them, but avoided them as I knew I’d be by far the youngest person in the room. Now that I’m in my twenties, I am still usually the youngest person in the group, but there’s often a thirty or forty-something in there with me. And while age has held me back from joining groups in the past, this experience quickly taught me that age doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with cancer – all of us could relate with one another in a deep, very emotional way. Like many of my experiences with the Colon Club, this group of a dozen strangers or so quickly became close friends over the course of seven weeks, and I pray we continue to keep in touch.
I am thankful for the Kansas City Cancer Centers for offering this class. It really did feel like my doctors and nurses were giving back to me in a way. It was of no charge to me and my husband was able to come with me, too. It was led by two nurses who, like my Nurse Kim, believe in the program so much, they volunteer their time to lead the group. It is informative, impactful and mind-altering. It’s helped me view cancer not as a monster hiding in my closet, waiting to strike again – but as a beatable, manageable disease that comes with a lot of support from others who’ve also been through it. If you’re in the KC area and diagnosed with the Big “C,” I strongly recommend checking out this class at KCCC. It will help you heal in ways you had no idea you were hurting.
October 6, 2010 at 5:35 pm Danielle B
Until I recently started tossing around the idea of seeing a counselor, I had no idea about the “stigma” that went with it. Sort of like when I got the tattoo on the left side of my belly and people told me AFTERWARDS how tender that spot is – that’s what this venture into counseling has felt like. I didn’t realize some of the perceptions that went along with it until I entered the world.
For the past several months I’d tossed around the idea of seeing a professional counselor. Life has it’s way of throwing curve balls, and they had just been adding up in my case. When they come one at a time, I can handle them. But when it feels like I’m at the batting cages and the machine that’s throwing pitch after pitch is broken, and they just keep coming one after the other, faster and faster — I knew it was time to get some help.
So, a great friend gave me a resource and I started meeting with a lady last week to help me work through some of life’s big issues that have come my way. And lucky for my readers and anyone else on the internet who googles counseling, cancer, or “do Twizzlers make your poop red?” — my most popular google search listing, I have decided to blog about it. Too many of us out there need help, but so many of us won’t go get it. It makes sense to go to the oncologist, radiologist and every other “ologist” we need for our bodies, but when it comes to our minds, we feel we can handle it. At least that was me until a few weeks ago when I finally broke down and signed up for some help.
Someone mentioned to me that when you go to counseling, something must be “really wrong,” and that’s why many people don’t want to go. I thought about that for a little bit and found it interesting. First, because just about everyone will say seeing a counselor is something good for you to do; and second, if trying to work through issues related to two bouts of cancer, infertility, family, jobs, relationships and an array of other things isn’t “really wrong” – I don’t know what is.
So, I started meeting with a counselor. And I’m really enjoying it so far. I’m one week in and have already learned a lot. I wouldn’t say anything is fixed, solved or that I’ve figured out my life, but at least I feel like I’m on the path to feeling more “me” again. I’m glad to have reached the point where I’m ready to conquer the emotional and mental side of this disease as well and stop running and hiding from all that scares or frightens me, even if it does come with the perception that something must be really wrong with me. Because let’s face it, sometimes living through colon cancer isn’t that much fun. But there are people out there to help us get hope again, and that’s exactly what I am set out to do.
July 6, 2010 at 10:48 am Danielle B
I thought it was strange when I missed three calls from my oncologist’s office this morning. There were not any messages, but I figured they would call back again. I was right, as I got the call just after lunch.
In the cancer community, a phone call can change everything. Especially when it comes from your oncologist’s office. Sometimes it’s bad news, other times it’s good. Today the call wasn’t anything that I expected.
Val, one of my chemo nurses from many moons ago was on the phone. She wanted to make sure that I knew. Kim, one of my favorite nurses and people who I’ve grown the closest to, was killed in an auto accident last week. She knew that I would want to know.
My stomach dropped.
Kim?
I had just seen her a few weeks ago. We talked for over an hour in her office. She had recently remarried and was showing me photos, a beaming new bride. I talked about the church, my family and my health status. She listened intently, as if my updates about family and life were a bestselling novel to her. She was so proud of me. She made me feel so special.
Kim was the nurse who saw me as more than just a 17-year-old patient who walked into the chemo room with a strange case of colon cancer. Don’t get me wrong, all of my chemo nurses were angels and treated me with the utmost care. But Kim and I had a special bond. She comforted me after I was told I’d lose my hair, and in a way that only she could have pulled off, slipped me wig brochures “just in case.” When I was complaining about being a teenager with cancer and asking what I could get out of it, she did some research and told me about the American Cancer Society’s Young Cancer Survivor’s Scholarship, a program which ended up helping pay over $3000 toward my college. She always told me I looked beautiful, even on the days when I was pale and hardly able to walk. She came to my wedding. She would even sneak little goodies into my bag of chemo brochures. I still have the “hope” basket she gave me near my bed.
I loved Kim. She was a bright spot that I always looked forward to when I returned to the oncology office. She was one of the cheeriest, most positive, loving people I’ve ever met. Even after she had breast cancer herself, she embraced life even more (and looked mighty cute with the surprising red, curly hair that grew back!) Her beaming smile, warm hugs and excited eyes couldn’t help but give all of us who knew her hope for our lives, and for all of us facing cancer.
Kim’s journey ended too soon. I was sad to hear of my friend and the trajedy. I wasn’t expecting to lose someone in this community to an accident rather than an illness. But it must have been her time. I know that one day, we will each have our time. But it doesn’t make it any easier.
Last time we were together, Kim & I talked about how God keeps us here for a reason, and takes us home when we’re we’ve accomplished our purpose. We talked about how to make it through suffering, and how to make the most of things once we are on the other side. Kim’s one of those people who I will forever credit to helping me make it to the other side with my battle with cancer. She gave me hope. She loved me. She inspired me. She made me feel beautiful. She helped me see that living my life and sharing my story is a huge accomplishment. She helped me muster up the courage to see tomorrow.
I think I was part of Kim’s purpose here on earth. I know I wouldn’t be the same without her. She’s helped me become who I am. And while tomorrow won’t have her with us, I’ll forever carry her with me. I will still smile. I will still give hugs. I will still have hope.
December 7, 2009 at 11:26 pm Danielle B
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I thought it was strange when I missed three calls from my oncologist’s office this morning. There were not any messages, but I figured they would call back again. I was right, as I got the call just after lunch.
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