The End of a Journey

Graduation season is upon us, and I, too, find myself ready to “graduate”.   With my story told, it seems only logical to wind down this blog.  I don’t look at it so much as an ending, but as an “advancement”.  It’s time to take what I have learned in looking back, turn my sights, and walk boldly into my future, armed with new knowledge, understanding and expectancy.

Although I am not grateful to have had cancer, I am grateful for how this experience has changed me.  I have been humbled by my frailty, and amazed by the strength God provides.  I walk forward with a greater appreciation for life, a deeper gratitude for relationships, and more empathy for others than I had known before.  I may have come away slightly beat-up physically, but I’ve also come away much stronger spiritually.  I have not only survived, but grown through the process.  And I am here to say, you can too.

Every one of us struggles.  I am no different than so many people… too many people.  But what I’ve been trying to say is simple; we have a choice.  Even in life’s brutal trials, we can choose how we live in it.  In most cases, no one can tell us if we will live through it, how we live in it may be the last thing we do.  I say choose hope.  How in the world, you might ask, can one have hope at such a time?  It’s simple.  You can’t… alone.  There is only one I know who offers the kind of hope that transcends even life itself, and that is God.  And there is only one I know who offers a way to be in right relationship with God, and that is Christ.  If you choose Him, you will find it truly doesn’t matter where He takes you.

So as I turn the tassel, my happy ending marks a new beginning.  There is one last thing I would want you to know, and that is how profoundly grateful I am for you.  Thank you my loving family, my caring friends, neighbors, and churches families near and far, for supporting me with massive prayer, small acts of kindness, and everything in between.  Thank you all, for not giving up on me, and for walking with me the whole way.

Note: I will keep this blog public for a time so it can remain available to new visitors. 

In God’s Eyes ©Lynnea Washburn

Hope in the Fire

The smelter’s fire.  Intense heat.  A forced forging.  A process.  One in which a solid becomes malleable.  Shifting, sifting, chaffing, changing.  A removal of impurities and unwanted elements.  A refining.  In fact, a freeing.  A freeing of what is pure from what is not.

I’ve been there, in that fire.  My fire of adversity was named cancer.  From its appearance, it looked beyond enduring.  When you are in the thick of it, you feel like you are being reduced to your base.  You have no concept of how you got there, how long you will be there, if the process will be repeated, or if you will survive it at all.  And if you do, what will be left of you?

Yet, the Smelter’s fire refines.  If you consider the word “refine”, you see its origin coming from Re, meaning again, and the verb Fine.  Again, fine.  One could even say Again Fine is merely a new starting point, as refine also means to improve little by little, as to be perfected.  Also quite compelling is the word “adversity”, as it is derived from the Latin adveretere; meaning “turn toward”.

Adversity. Turn toward.  Refine.  Again fine.  Improved.

Although we may face adversity in its very worst form, we should always remind ourselves that we still have choices while we are in it.  We can be bitter and angry at our circumstances, asking why me, or why this, or why now.  Or we can turn toward the master Smelter, trust Him, and yield to His hand.

If we trust that in this, there are impurities being purged, in this, we are being reshaped into something more, in this, a greater understanding of truth can be learned, and in this, a deeper relationship with God can be gained, then we will have hope in the fire.  And in the end, we will know that is wasn’t all for naught.

Sometimes, it takes the hottest fire to free us, but at all times, God is still with us.  And when adversity comes our way, if we cling to Him, and put ourselves into His loving hands, then He can use the fire to shape us into the people He made us to be.*

*Zachariah 13:9

This third I will put into the fire; I will refine them like silver and test them like gold.  They will call on my name and I will answer them; I will say, ‘They are my people,’ and they will say, ‘The Lord is our God.’”

Daybreak, by Lynnea Washburn, from the Living Victoriously collection.

All portions of the blog are ©Lynnea Washburn.  All rights reserved.

Restoration

The tech nurse was just about done, and as she disconnected the electrodes she used in the exam,  she smiled.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t want to steal the doctor’s thunder, but… things are looking pretty good.”

It was probably a good thing I wasn’t still hooked up because I was sure my heart just skipped a beat.

It was February, and the time had come for another echocardiogram. This is a type of sonogram of the heart.  It looks at valve function, how the ventricles communicate, and measures cardiac output called Ejection Fraction (EF).  Two years ago my EF was about half at what it should be (>30), which, as a heart failure patient, was not surprising (but as a new heart patient, very).  At that time, my cardiologist said that with medicine and diet changes, we would see improvement, but in honesty, it was not likely my heart would ever return fully to normal function.  And indeed, after the first year, my EF had not improved very much at all.

Coming into this examination, I did not know what to expect, yet I couldn’t help but remain hopeful.  I had been diligent with my medications and diet, and my quality of life had definitely improved.  And, of course, I had been praying every day, thanking God for the healing work He was doing in my body.  So either I was truly getting better, or I only felt like I was getting better.  Now was the day to find out which.  So after the remark by the tech nurse, I was eager for my doctor’s appointment that followed.

My cardiologist confirmed that great news immediately.  It was so good, in fact, that my heart was now functioning in the normal range!  Albeit on the low-end of the normal range, but still, within the normal range.  She said that now she wouldn’t even be surprised to see further improvement.  What a wonderful, fantastic, ecstatic, incredible day it had suddenly become.  We jumped up and hugged, and laughed, and called in my favorite cardio nurse, and we all celebrated together.

“Sometimes the medicine just takes longer to work in some people,” she said, and then added, “I know your faith has had a lot to do with this also.”

Damn right.

Wow.  And wow again.  I couldn’t wait to tell my husband, the kids, my parents, siblings, friends, and well,  just anyone who cared to listen!  Joy and more joy was the order of the day.  I also recalled the moment in December, when my sister (and sister in Christ) told me she had gotten a word from God for me for the New Year.  Now, if anyone ever tells you that, you make sure to stop everything you are doing and listen.  Her word for me was: Restoration.

Indeed.

————————-

I once said, “sometimes we find ourselves in a place where we least expect it.”  Now, instead of that place being cancer, or heart failure, that place is wholeness and healing.  I feel so blessed, very blessed, to be where I am today.  I never want anyone to wish it away… wish that I didn’t have to go through what I did, because there has been so much growing, so much learning, so much faith-building, and so much intimacy with the Lord during this very difficult journey.  I am proof that in all things God can make good for those who love Him*.  He has never left my side, He has shown up for me in new ways, He has heard every prayer, and He has spoken life over me.  Through it all I felt His love, His hope, and His peace like no other time in my life.

So if you have doubt, you remember me.  And if you need encouragement, you call me.  And if you need prayer, you ask me.  We will take these things to God together.

If I should ever again face something that could take my life, I will gladly put myself into the arms of God once more.  He may choose to bring me through it, or choose to bring me home.  But no matter what He chooses, I choose Him.  And today by His grace I can say, I am.

*Romans 8:28

All portions of this blog are ©Lynnea Washburn.  All rights reserved.

Affairs of the Heart

(Note: what was intended as a short break from my blog ran a bit longer than expected.  Thanks for hanging in there.)

Two years ago this April… and for the second time in my life… I was told to “put my affairs in order”.  Never a good thing to hear.  But what I still wonder is, what exactly are “My Affairs”, and what is their proper order?

As it turns out, the kind of chemotherapy that I had needed to kill my cancer has a well-documented history of causing Cardiomyopathy (Heart Failure).  Although the chemo dosage I received was well below the levels commonly known to cause this, it happened none the less.  We knew it was a risk, but if we wanted the best odds of surviving the cancer, it was a risk we simply had to accept.

The most difficult part of living with Heart Failure is the possibility of dying from it.  When the heart is only pumping half as strong as it should, it could stop at any time.  Thankfully, there is treatment: a combination of medication and diet changes that will prolong life. Water pills to help the kidneys work, beta blockers to help the heart pump stronger, and a low sodium/low fluid intake.  Getting the medication to the effective level desired is a long, slow process that for me, took close to a year to complete.

Eight months into the regimen, my doctor determined that unfortunately, my heart had made very little improvement, which meant I would also need a defibrillator device inserted into my chest. With my own set of “paddles” wired into my heart, in the event my heart should stop or fibrillate, I would get a shock that would correct it, and save my life.  Of course, I was told that it would feel like getting kicked in the chest by a horse.  Wonderful.  Still, better than the alternative.

It was during this time that I found myself living with a new companion, the little dark cloud over my shoulder named Sudden Death.  It followed me where ever I went.  Each night I prayed to God to let me to wake up the next morning.  Each morning, I thanked God for His answer.  I constantly reminded myself that in all things God can make good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose.*  I worked hard at getting my emotions out of the way, to lean on His strength because mine was sorely insufficient, and to trust, trust, trust God for each day.  It was hard work.

“Are you sure, God?” was my persistent question.  “Are you sure… after the cancer… this is what we are doing?”  The questions only started there.

“Why am I going through another wilderness with you, Lord?  If this is where you want me to be, then what am I to understand here?  What is it that you want Lord?  From me… through this?  Am I to walk here for the rest of my life?”  For months I asked these things of God.  I wrote long open letters to Him, asking for more faith, acknowledging my weaknesses, my bewilderment, expressing my gratitude for what He had already delivered me from, asking forgiveness for my doubts about where I was now.  Although I knew I was loved, and I knew He was with me, make no mistake, I was really struggling.  Struggling to understand, or perhaps… struggling to accept.  Clearly I didn’t agree with it.  Clearly I thought God had made a mistake.

Then, after many months, an answer came.  In a word: Yield.

From a book called One in a Million.**

Once the book was opened, revelations came tumbling out.  It was as if God plucked that book off my shelf, plopped down next to me on the couch, opened a page and started reading aloud.  It was really quite incredible.  That book had been sitting there for so long, it dawned on me that God had put the answers in my hands long before I had formed the questions in my mind.  Right there, in black and white, was a reply to every single question I had written out to God.  Literally.

Clarity followed.  I was reminded of all that I had learned in my walk through the wilderness called cancer.  It was there that I had gotten to know God more intimately than I had ever known Him before.  It was there that I learned I was not as capable as I thought I was, but God would step into my weakness and provide me with the hope, determination, and strength I could no longer muster.  It was there that I experienced a profound humbling that revealed the depth of my belief.  Which was then tested, and cemented.  It was there that I had made the choice to go anywhere with God than to stay where I was without Him.  So, you see, after wondering for so long what I was doing here, in a way, you could way that I was here… by choice.

Now it was time to yield.  Yield to the wilderness, for through it, we will have the privilege to experience God anew.  Yield to it, and through it, He will continue to grow us into the people he knows we can be.  Yield to the wilderness, for He uses it to prepare us for the abundant life He has promised.***  The wilderness can hone, perfect, strengthen, humble, grow obedience, courage, hope and faith.

And in the peace that has followed these many months of wondering (wandering), I realized two more things.  One; at some point the cloud called Sudden Death suddenly vaporized, and two; I found that My Affairs, the ones that truly matter, were being put in order after all.

*Romans 8:28

**One in a Million, copyright 2010 Priscilla Shirer, B & H Publishing Group, Nashville, TN

***Jeremiah 29:11 “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Copyright Lynnea Washburn.  All rights reserved.

Act II

I was checking off my last-minute errands before we took off to Mexico the next day.  It was a vacation I finally felt well enough to enjoy, except for this little bout with a pesky chest infection.  No matter, I thought, another round of antibiotics should do the trick, and I was just leaving the doctor’s office with prescription in hand.  I should have known it was bad sign when the nurse came running out after me as I headed to my car after the chest x-ray.

“Can you come back in?” she asked, “The doctor would like to speak with you.”

Crap.  They found something.

A million things ran through my mind in that short walk back to his office.  My health had been returning steadily.  It had been almost four years of clean scans since my cancer treatment.  Had the lymphoma returned?  Could it be?  But these symptoms were different.  I couldn’t catch my breath after walking ten yards, my heart pounded after walking upstairs, and I couldn’t sleep due to a constant cough.  Nothing like before.  It wasn’t the same script.

Doctor N gave me that same sideways look I had seen once before.  Uh oh, I thought.

“You may have Cardiomyopathy,” he said.

“I don’t know what that is, but it has something to do with the heart…?”

“Yes, its heart damage.  Most likely caused by the chemotherapy,” he continued.  Knowing of my vacation plans he said, “You need to have an echocardiogram immediately.  I’m setting up an appointment for you downtown this afternoon, and I’m working on getting you in to see a cardiologist.”  I only learned later he had been writing “STAT” on everything all along.

Like a book you are partway through before you realize you’ve read it before (except you don’t remember the ending), this was all way too familiar.  Numbly I drove downtown, knowing the way to the hospital by rote, which allowed me too much time to ponder what this all really meant.

After the echocardiogram was done, the tech nurse asked if I could wait a minute.  She wanted to have a cardiologist check it before I left.  As more and more time ticked away, I began to realize they were debating whether they should let me go.  Finally, the nurse said I could leave, but that Doctor N would be calling me.  I got as far as the lobby outside the exam room when my phone rang.

Good news just doesn’t travel this quickly, and I knew what he was going to say even before he got the words out.  “As I suspected, you do have Cardiomyopathy.  You have an urgent appointment Monday morning to see the cardiologist.  We decided to let you go home now instead of admitting you, but Lynnea. you. cannot. go. to. Mexico.”

I sat, eyes brimming, as fear egged on emotions that I fought to contain.

“I’m so sorry,” he continued, “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but this is extremely serious.  If something were to happen… you may not come back.”  As that idea sunk in, I knew he was right, and although I could barely form the words, I said I would be at the appointment on Monday.

Now what.  What in the world was I dealing with?  How serious is “serious”?  What about the trip?  We’re leaving in the morning.  No wait, I’m not leaving.  Should they still go?  They should go.  Will they?  They won’t want to.  Am I safe to stay alone?  What if…?  What a mess.

Of course the first thing my husband and I did when I got home was to go to the internet and seek out as much information as possible.  That’s when we learned that… oh… Cardiomyopathy is Heart Failure.  All my symptoms were there… and, ohh… the possibility of organ transplant… and ohhh…. the possibility of sudden death.  That’s when the reading stopped.  Cue ton of bricks.

We looked at each other, held on tight, let the tears flow until we found our breath.  Shaking my head and straightening, I said,  “Well.  We’ve been here before, haven’t we?”  Conceding nods.  We both know the mantra that comes next.

“You and I both know that if it is time for me to go, then no one, and nothing, will prevent that from happening.  And, if it is not time for me to go, then no one, and nothing, can make that happen.”

If it had not been for the cancer, I would not have known this to be true.

I could not believe I was in this place again, but now was not the time to think about that.  We only had a few hours to sort things out, tell the family, and make a new plan.  It was emotional, messy, difficult, hard, hard work.  Finally, with the help of my parents, a plan emerged that we could reluctantly live with.  I would stay, my oldest son would be there with me until my parents flew in the next evening.  My husband, son and girlfriend would go to Mexico as planned with the understanding if they decided to turn around and come home at any time, they could.

So marked the inauspicious beginning of Act II; Heart Failure.

And although my heart didn’t stop working at that time, it surely felt like it was breaking.  Clearly Mexico was not where God wanted me to go.  But I couldn’t help but ask Him ~ then where in the world, God, are we heading now?

Walking through Water

Healing.  It’s a slow walk tempered by an elusive resistance that you are unable to fully grasp and move out of your way.  Some days you feel you’ve made great strides, other days you feel your feet are stuck in muck.

With treatment over I was eager to reclaim my life.  As much as I wanted to simply put everything behind me and pick up exactly where I left off, that really isn’t how it works.  For the next five years,  I would be under close supervision.  Year one would include a scan every three months, year two, every four months, year three to year five, every six months.  The first year was critical, as it held the highest probability for the cancer to return.

But I really wasn’t listening to any of that.  I knew I was done.  In fact, I had arranged for my port to be removed by a practitioner shortly after my last treatment.  Afterwards, when I arrived for my first post-treatment evaluation, my onocologist was shocked.

“You did what?!”

“I had it taken out.  I don’t need it any more,” I said.

He sort of fell back upon his chair as he muttered something about that was “ballsy”.  I swore I thought I had heard him give me the green light to remove it.  Guess I was being too selective in my hearing, too literal, too confident, or simply too eager.  What he did say was that I could have it removed after the chemo was done. What he didn’t say was that we might need to use it for chemo again.

Nope. We will not be doing that.  I was certain of it, and I was proven right in the end.

For me, getting that port out was a huge proactive step away from illness.  I had always hated it, and the way it made me feel so… alien.  I felt I belonged in a science fiction movie where you get plugged into a slimy entity that simultaneously provides you with sustenance while it poisons you slowly.  You endure the chill of the swab, the noise of juicy suction, the heat in your veins.  You dare not break the tether for you know the alternative is far worse.  I craved to be rid of it.  When not in use, it often sent waves of pain down my left arm, making me fear I was having heart attacks.  Where ever I went, I had felt it’s invisible chains keeping me linked to the chemotherapy chair. The day that tie was finally broken, it was as if I was finally free, to run again… to run fast… to run away.

Ah… but healing.  You start off with a bang, excited and pent up and ready to sprint like the wind.  But it’s a lot like running full speed into water, all the motions are there, but the minute you reach it, you hit a wall.  No matter how fast you were when you entered this seemingly benign substance, it immediately forces all your efforts into slow motion.  That’s when you realize you better readjust, for it turns out you’re in a long distance event after all.  A five year matter at least, perhaps longer.

In many ways, Overcoming the Cancer was the preliminary heat in a new contest called Overcoming the Treatment.  Turns out they’re both Olympic events, albeit in very different ways.  Now, triumph would be measured in the smallest of gains over the longest of periods with the most consistency of effort.  Like walking through deep water.  So you plod.  You keep going.  One heavy foot in front of the other.  You don’t quit, for there is no going back.  No way.  You remember how God had shown up for you in the past.  And you trust.  You keep the faith that you are getting somewhere.  That you are healing.  And with the grace of God, you will prevail.

Water Lily 1 ©Lynnea Washburn

All portions of this blog are ©Lynnea Washburn.  All rights reserved.

The Day

“Your tumor is gone,” he said.  My mouth dropped open.  “What?”

“Your large tumor is gone, and all the other lymph nodes except one are back to their normal size,” my doctor said, “and that, we believe, is only scar tissue.”

My eyes filled, and blinking back the tears, I asked if he’d wouldn’t mind telling me that again, I wanted to hear it again, I needed to hear it again.  He knew, and obliged… about five times in all.

My husband and I sat stunned and then quickly found each others arms, and held on for the emotional ride that followed.  Tears poured out with relief unimaginable, words lost in overwhelming gratitude.  A joy never understood until now rushed in and filled every corner of my mind, my heart, my soul.  A complete release overcame me like I had never known before.  It was over.  A new breath of life filled me, breathing in relief, exhaling release.  Relief, release.  And I began to pray.

What I had claimed all along, that my God was bigger than my cancer, was now a reality.  What I believed from the start, that the treatment would work in accordance to His plan, was now a fact.  But to have this day come, and to hear the words “your tumor is gone”, was not something I had allowed myself to imagine.  It took time before I could find my voice and repeat the words out loud for fear I might somehow jinx the results.

What I didn’t know was that the next several months would be critical in keeping the cancer at bay.  But I didn’t need to know that now.  It was gone.  I had won.  That’s all I needed to know.  The Day of dancing, The Day of singing, The Day of praise had come.  The Day of good news, of laughter, of living completely unbound was here.  It was The Day my future was returned.  Life was mine, and it was mine right now.  How interesting that it came after I had surrendered completely to God.  I was on a cloud that could not be brought down for anything.

How I longed for the extraordinary ordinariness that had been missing in my life.  How refreshing it would be to operate from a viewpoint that did not center on me.  I was looking forward to looking outward.  Yet, it is only after the battle that one can take stock of what’s left on the battlefield, and just because my cancer was gone was not the same as if it had never happened.  Yes, there was collateral damage to contend with, and yes, there was incredible bounty as well, but all that could wait for tomorrow.  Today was a new day with new hope.

In my profound gratitude, I spent time simply residing in the love of God.  Grateful that His will for me aligned with the answer to my prayer, the intimate cry of my heart, spoken prior to the coming news of The Day.  Lord, mold me, use me, shape me to become who you want me to be.  Use my cancer to do your work.  How can I serve you through this Lord?  Use my cancer to make me… into anything you want.  You know how much I love my children Lord, my heart overflows with love for them.  Allow me a full and healthy life so I may raise them completely, let me experience the joy of their lives.  I know you must feel the same way towards me that I feel towards them.  It is impossible to express.  I pray, Lord, that you will heal me completely.  Thank you Lord.  Amen.

And amen.

Queen Anne's Lace/Welcome Home ©Lynnea Washburn

Reshaped

I looked like an alternate version of myself.  My bottom eyelashes were finally gone.  I still had some on top, although they were pretty wimpy too, and my eyebrows were not much better.  My shape was also shifting, my weight was up and my face was round.  Without my wig on, I looked rather a lot like Buddha, especially when I sat cross-legged.  But darn it all, I had made it to the halfway mark and could use a break, so I decided I would still go to the party.

After finding a new blouse (in a larger size), squeezing into old jeans (for the last time), I put on my wig, and painted my face.  Literally.  My eyes were constantly watering from the meds, and the bit of eyeliner I managed to get on kept wearing off, so I brought it with me to reapply often.  It took a lot of work, but I thought I looked okay.  Apparently, I wasn’t fooling anyone.

I was met with concerned faces.  Everyone was so kind and caring… but also so worried.  I began to feel uneasy.  I had wanted some fun, to forget my troubles for a while, mingle in a happy crowd, and have a pleasant distraction.  But I wound up spending the night explaining my diagnosis, my treatment, and how I was feeling about everything.  Consolation followed me everywhere.  Not exactly the night I envisioned.

Near the end of the evening it slowly occurred to me.  Oh…I thought, they think this might be the last time they see me.  This set my jaw. I wanted to stand up on a chair in the middle of the room, stomp my foot and scream WAIT! I am not going anywhere!  I decided it would be my last public event for a while.  How long, who knew.  But one thing I did know, I was just going to have to prove them wrong.

Looking forward, I braced myself for the second half of treatment.  I had begun to count them down backwards, four to go, two after the next one, one more after that.  Somehow this helped.  Chemo was slowly reshaping my resistance.  It was getting a little harder to bounce back, that “flu” feeling was lasting longer, and I was getting more tired out each time.  Seeing that last date finally approach was huge.

On treatment day my husband and I arrived with an edgy eagerness.  Deep breath, here we go, last one. But at the check-in desk, I was told I was not on the schedule.  What?  Heat began to rise within me, and I fought to keep my voice in control.  No I’m there, you must be mistaken. I sat right here when you made the appointment. No. You’ve got to be kidding. This is my last time.  You can’t tell me that.  I could tell by her nervousness as she checked her books, that she knew it wasn’t going to happen.  I’m sorry was all she could say.  I stomped my foot and cried WAIT!  I am not going anywhere!  Then, I lost it.  I began to sob.  Uncontrollably.  Loudly.

Wisely, they found me a room where I continued to weep in private.  It was only then that I realized how much it took to get here, to this building, to this floor, to these rooms with their smells, their day-chairs, their IVs.  It took every ounce of strength, every bit of courage I had to walk in here knowing how critical this all was, how venomous the drugs were, how sick I’d feel afterwards, how desperately I needed it to work.  It simply took everything.  When it all came spilling out, there was just no stopping it.

We waited through the morning hoping for a no-show, which would allow me to take their place.  This was a good thing, as it gave me the time I needed to gain some control over my emotions.  When it became clear there was no chance for this to happen, we scheduled it once again, and silently went home.  Not nearly the day I expected.

* * * * *

When things go awry, it’s not always easy to see what God is doing.  But often He uses circumstances to mold us and shape us into who He wants us to be; a better version of ourselves.  One experience can shape our determination, while another can temper it with patience, forming a new resilience not present before. And when He is finally done, no doubt His fingerprints will be all over us.  The bad news is that it hurts sometimes; the good news is that all the while, we are in His hands.

* * * * *

Olives/Faith ©Lynnea Washburn

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All portions of this post are ©Lynnea Washburn.  All rights reserved.

Overliving

Halfway to the halfway mark.  You’ve got to find your milestones no matter how small they are.  A new cycle had emerged; treatment, side effects, normalcy, repeat.  Four cycles, evaluation, then four more.  It was a deceptively simple routine.  One in which I felt I was accomplishing nothing, but at the same time experiencing everything way too much.  I called it “overliving”, a side effect of sensory overload, an awareness dialed up to the tenth power.

It began with oversmelling.  Every smell had intensified so much that a once-pleasant scent was now acrid.  Cooked chicken smelled like dead foul, steak like rotting cow, and coffee smelled exactly like what it was; burnt beans.  The smells were closely paired with overtasting.  Even water now had the flavor of chemicals and chlorine.  Nothing tasted as it had before, or perhaps it tasted exactly as it should… about this I have continued to ponder.

Then there were the soaps, the cleansers, the shampoos.  I can’t tell you how many different varieties were tried.  Even the unscented had scent.  And oh, how they lingered!  On the sheets, on my clothes, on my skin.  The products certainly did their job, and no amount of rinsing reduced their ever-so-fresh guarantee.  Each scent was now overdone and overblown, and made my nose zing in agony.

Body temperature was another thing.  Whether it was my skin or my internal gauge, I was completely out of whack.  At times overly hot, but more often much too cold.  I felt every little draft, and spent many hours wrapped up and still chilled to the bone.  When a wood fire was lit in an effort to bring me comfort, it smelled as if I was inhaling the burnt cinders themselves.

Surprising however, were the emotional changes.  This wasn’t on the radar of possible side effects.  I started noticing and enjoying seemingly little things I had missed before.  I felt happiness more strongly, gratefulness daily, and found much to appreciate around me.  The purity of a bird’s song, the warmth of a single ray of sun, the peace found in the dusk of the day, and the uplifting breeze that held the promise of spring.  I found new appreciation for small joys.

Music fell fresh upon my ears, with new meaning and more emotion than before.  Sunday messages held words spoken uniquely for me as if I were the only one in the room.  Conversations were filled with insights and resonating truth.  Books were read with new levels of understanding and empathy.  I often felt as if I were seeing things for what they truly were for the very first time.  I found new significance in familiar places.

It was as if somewhere it had been decided that if I had to endure the physical discomfort of this new kind of overliving, then I would also get to experience a new kind of overjoying.  And although the physical effects would gradually diminish, there has been something lasting about the emotional ones.  One was clearly medication-based, but the other?  Perhaps… this was merely grace.

And once again I pondered, if life is not the same as it was before… perhaps now it is exactly the way it should be.

Water Lily 1 ©Lynnea Washburn

Water Lily 2 ©Lynnea Washburn

Water Lily crystal paper weight

From the Living Victoriously collection of fine products by Boston International.

All portions of this blog ©Lynnea Washburn.

Beauty for Ashes

“Would you like me to cover up the mirror?” the wig maker asked.

“No,” I said.  I thought that watching the progression of my hair being removed would be easier than seeing it all gone at once.

I had been warned that it would fall out suddenly, and that long before I was ready, I would need to make a decision about what to do with my hair.  Or lack of it.  They were right.  It was mere weeks after the first round of chemo that it had begun to fall out.  Reality hit too soon as hair filled my brush, laid upon my pillow, and came off in my hands when I stroked it.

I hadn’t sought out the wig maker.  Someone I once worked with some ten years prior, in another state no less, just happened to have a close friend from her college days that lived not far from me.  I had met this friend briefly some 12 months before, and when she heard I had cancer, she called me.  It was upon her recommendation that I considered the wig maker, and I had made a consultation to find out more.  But since the hair had started to go, my consult was quickly changed to a hair removal.

His name was Kurt, and his talent was amazing.  Kurt’s father had immigrated from Europe to the United States with the craft of wig making using human hair.  What began as a thriving high fashion business in New York City changed over time to become a specialized salon that catered to the needs of cancer patients.  Kurt’s father may have taught him the trade, but Kurt’s tender disposition was uniquely his own, empathic, caring and kind.

With my husband in tow, we arrived early in the morning, as Kurt had cleared his entire day for me.  Gently he began, starting at the back of my head, and he carefully removed my hair in sections.  He then placed them on a bed of long pins in a very specific order.  This way, the hair would be sewn onto a silk cap exactly where it had once belonged on my head.  All the while, he left the front of my hair in place which framed my face.  He knew what he was doing.  From my vantage point, all I saw was me looking back at myself looking normal.

“Ready?” he asked before the last of it was taken.  After a quick breath and an encouraging smile from my husband, I nodded.  The last two sections were removed as I watched, and I sat there in disbelief as I looked in the mirror.

“I look the same!” I said in surprise.  Then I laughed.  What was I thinking?  That my whole face would suddenly change?  That I would morph into someone else?  Or something else?  I startled myself with this silly realization.  The fact that this irrational fear had only vanished when all the hair was gone was equally stupefying.  I gained some composure, put on a long scarf, topped it with a hat, and turned to my husband. Voila.

“You look beautiful”, he said.  I married the right man.

Later that day, when the wig was finished we returned.  It looked amazing.  You couldn’t even tell I was wearing a wig.  I was shown how to wash my hair in the sink, attach it to my head with double-sided tape, and style it as usual with the blow dryer.  It was a bit challenging to find where my hairline used to be as I positioned it on my forehead.  A bit off and something just looked… well, a bit off.  With practice I would get it… most of the time.

But the hardest part of the day came as we prepared to leave.  I attempted to tell Kurt how much this meant to me.  To still have my hair, to keep a part of myself, was huge.  Overcoming my fear that somehow I would lose myself was even greater.  I was humbled by the fact that his talent, this gift, would help keep me whole.  He had gathered the markers of illness and had woven them into a crown.  My gratefulness overwhelmed me, and the longer I stood there the harder it was to speak.  I got as far as saying thank you, but the rest of my words were choked back by tears.  It’s okay, he said.  He gave me a hug.  He understood.

Later that evening, as I was saying goodnight to the boys, I asked each one if they wanted to see my bald head.  Tyler and Nate’s reactions were the same.  They looked me over and slowly nodded, as if to say… so there’s your head, uh huh, okay, we can deal.  Then when I showed Nick, I laughed aloud for the second time that day as he exclaimed,

“You look the same!”

From now on every morning, my cancer was going to show its reflection to me when I looked in the mirror.  But it would be my choice to decide what it is I truly saw… how I had changed, or how I remained the same.  And it would be my choice to decide what I would reflect to the world.

* * * * *

God says He will give you a crown of beauty instead of ashes*, and this I know to be true.  He tends to your needs through providence that appears to be coincidence.  He tells you what you need to hear through someone words.  He comforts you through someone’s gifts, encourages you through someone’s smile, touches you through someone’s hug, and loves you through someone’s heart.  He sees you for what you really are, and no matter what you’ve been through, you are beautiful to Him.

Roses & Damask ©Lynnea Washburn

* Isaiah 61: 3

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