Thursday, December 12, 2013

the ten percentile

Almost a year ago, I was sitting with my daughter late one night in the ER at OSU.  She's had several health issues that she is way too young to have, and even though I was in the  middle of my radiation treatments, I volunteered to put on a mask and sit with her so her husband could go home and tuck two scared little girls into bed with a daddy's reassurances that everything was going to be OK.

Only, everything was not going to be ok - life had taken an irreversible turn - again.

She was needing a diagnostic spinal tap to determine why her optic nerve had suddenly gone a little crazy causing her to lose the sight in one eye.

When the very young, and a bit cocky doctor stepped into her ER booth, he explained the procedure to her and I was a bit surprised that they were going to do the spinal tap there - in a booth that smelled of urine and on a bed I was pretty sure was not the epitome of sterile.

I chatted with him a bit, and he didn't have to be a Sherlock Holmes to notice my lack of eyelashes, eyebrows and winter hat covering my hairless head.  I asked him if I could stay in the room during the procedure and he said "of course".

He went over the warnings of possible problems, then glibly said "those never happen, though".  And I told him what Scott and I had determined several years before after hearing several medical professionals stating "wow, we're sorry, that hardly ever happens"....

I told him, only half smiling, while pointing back and forth between Heidi and myself, I told him "you realize, we are the 10%".

The first time he tried to get into her spinal fluid, he couldn't.

I had turned on my "medical-brain", while switching off my "mom-brain" and watched.  I watched as he tried several more times, then I watched her blood pressure dramatically drop, watched her body start dripping with sweat, watched her pass out, and watched the doctor lay her over on her side a little alarmed, and then I watched him abruptly leave the room.

My medical-brain was a bit stunned, a bit pissed at his departure leaving a nurse to clean up his mess, and a bit alarmed that the nurse said he was going to try again.  My mom-brain that had switched itself back on, was feeling the same way.

I know an arrogant-medical-ass when I meet one.

After her blood pressure normalized, and the sheet drenched with sweat was changed, he poked his head back in and said he would try again in an hour.

An hour later, I counted 19 pokes.  Nineteen pokes into her spine.  And those were the ones I counted - I probably started counting at four or five.

I wasn't so sure he was being absolutely sterile - he would poke then pull out and look then poke again.  He was gloved up, but gloves are no more sterile than fingers once they touch non-sterile surfaces.  I wasn't so sure anyone should do that many pokes in ANY spine.  I wasn't so sure he was continuing because he needed the medical test results, or continuing because his ego wouldn't allow him to stop.  

I had to stoop down and sit, because my medical brain was screaming "STOP", and so was my mom-brain.  I was not on top of my game mentally, or I might have spoken out loud.

He finally tapped the spinal fluid, found it to be "good", and left the room.

I hope I never see him again.

I have said this many times, and said it again that night.  I said, "I think you would have received better medical attention at the vet clinic".  I know at least 16 veterinarians that were more careful with needle sticks into a vein, than this medical doctor doing needle sticks into a spine.

And, I know, it would have been more sterile.

***

I want to create a sign for our family to wear into any doctor's offices, hospitals, emergency rooms - it would read something like this "WE ARE THE 10%".

It's not paranoia.  It's happened a few too many times to tape that over the sign.

Knee surgeries, gastro hospitalizations and surgeries, thyroids, lungs, brain tumors, and even cancer.  All of those came with a surprised wry smile and the tag line "this rarely ever happens".....

While Scott was at the Cleveland Clinic, he claimed one even better - he was placed in the "one-percentile" group.

Whatever the reasoning, we have been included in more than a few medical mishaps or mysteries or downright negligence.  

Through it all, we have probably met some of the worst in the medical field, but on the flip side of that coin is the fact that we have also met many of the best in the medical field.

Having that much unwanted experience, has led me to have little patience with the arrogance and negligence that you sometimes run into with the medical field.

It has also allowed me to see the differing reactions to different problems.  Cancer is high alarm.  Cancer is "all guns on deck!"  Cancer is like a locker room before a big football game - everyone is anxious to get into the game and work hard and fight and win.

On the other hand, bring up something like thyroid, or auto-immune, and you will see 92% of anyone in the medical field's eyes glaze over and you know they are counting the minutes before they can abruptly leave the exam room.

As high as cancer is on the alarm scale, auto-immune is that high on the frustration scale.

There hasn't been enough research on it, there hasn't been enough teaching in medical schools about it, there hasn't been enough tests to find it and tag it, and cure it.

When the words auto-immune come up, doctors just seem to want to roll up in the fetal position for a while.  They know this patient is never going be an easy diagnose - dose - cure patient.

I've dealt with auto-immune issues, and sadly, my daughter has had to deal with auto-immune that has had alarming and scary side effects.

And now, the deepest of griefs, her daughter as well is dealing with it all.  She is much, much too young.

If you say the words "inflamed optic nerve" in my hearing, I usually immediately sit down, because in my experience, hearing those words has been followed by the words "brain tumor" or "lost vision in one eye" in one I love more than my own life.

I got the phone call yesterday, that one so, so young, had been given those same words.  The dreaded words "inflamed optic nerve" were used in a sentence with her name attached.

My sweet granddaughter has been to the doctor too many times already.  She has been misdiagnosed too many times already.  She has had to endure tests that she didn't understand too many times.

She fights savagely after stepping through the threshold of any doctor's office.   I've been told she has a mean exam-table-reaction-kick that can render male doctors childless.

She is already on a extremely careful diet that causes her to eat her carefully packed lunch almost alone at a secluded table at school.  She knows what she can and cannot eat, and turns down birthday cupcakes, Halloween candy, McDonald's chicken nuggets regularly.

She sits at a special desk that has an ear piece in her classroom so she can hear the teacher.  She hid in her closet and cried the first day of school this year - she was afraid the other kids would be mean to her.

She's an over-comer that one, though.  Her teacher says that she is a leader in her class and well-liked.  She's kind and empathetic to her core but will come out fighting when she sees injustice.

She has been told that she can't do soccer - which she loved.  The same girl that worked so hard to be able to grab across the monkey bars at the park was told she can't do any sports where her head may be injured.  She has been told she can't eat more than half of what most kids love.  She has been told she has to endure test after test after test.

And she is still the sunniest, happiest kid.

She has been listening to Anne of Green Gables lately, and when I stayed with them recently and we were alone, she asked me sadly one day if I "had a life-long sorrow"?  Anne of Green Gables claims that her life-long sorrow was to endure her red hair.  Addy clamped onto that idea and has been obviously turning that question over in her brain.  When she asked me - I wanted to cry - how could I tell her that my lifelong sorrow was to see her or anyone that I love, suffer?

***

When Addy's mum called me yesterday after her eye appointment, and said the words "inflamed optic nerve" attached to her name - I immediately cried out to God.  No!  No!  Please, God, No!

I laid awake almost all night, praying.  Praying.  Crying out to the God of the universe that created our smallest cellular structure - I prayed that God would move in that young girl's cellular makeup.

For those that don't know, an inflamed optic nerve can mean a few things - many times it's a precursor to MS.  In the case of our daughter, it pointed to a brain tumor.  Then at a later date, it caused her to lose sight in one eye.

I grieved that deeply.  Heidi has lost so much - her health, half of her sight, half of her hearing, her vigor during youthful years, and her symptoms rarely give her rest.

We are so thankful for good doctors that have diagnosed her accurately after years of missed diagnosis, but so grieve the loss of what should be the strongest, healthiest years of her life.

She handles it all well, but as parents, we don't want her to have to 'handle' anything.

After all that, when I got the call yesterday after Addy's eye appointment, I fell down before God.

We were all scared, because it hasn't turned out so well previously.

***

Germans are an odd breed of people.  At best, they have the most orderly, most perfect lawns and gardens.  At worst, they are distinctively distant, untouching, unflinching, unloving.  In the prior century of world history, they wreaked unnecessary havoc, and that list of attributes helped them claim the award for the most atrocious war crimes known to mankind.

Some historians note that the ancient Romans used the brutal shoulder-length-blond-germanic-mercenaries in the Galilean area before the time of Jesus.

Eye doctors tell us today, that those with german heritage sometimes have chronic inflamed optic nerves.  Chronic inflamed optic nerves that do not break with MS in a year.  Chronic inflamed optic nerves that could or could not cause problems later.  Chronic inflamed optic nerves that need to be pampered a bit to keep them from causing headaches or becoming more inflamed.

In the big scheme of things, hearing that a wee loved one has a "chronic inflamed optic nerve" is the best news we could have heard this morning.

The best of the worst news ever.

And we pray, that in her lifetime there will be answers and help on how to relieve this problem without dire consequences.  We pray for a complete healing for her.

She has had to learn to "live suffering" way too early.

I pray that the medical field will grow and enlarge in it's efforts to combat and cure auto-immune disorders.

In the meantime, I have a first hand, first grade example of how to deal with medical problems that just won't go away.

She's pretty awesome, that Addy-girl.































Monday, November 11, 2013

Destroyed. (but it's a good birthday to be alive)

Today is my birthday.

Yesterday I just sat on my couch and cried and cried.

It's the weirdest thing - the tears just pop out.  

It's happened a couple of times recently.  I keep flashing back to last year - it's not like I am just remembering - but it's interruptive flashes of "views" of my life last year popping up at the oddest times.

At least the parts I remember.

Last week I had a doctors appointment - again - and as I was driving on the interstate I was trying my best not to get distracted and end up going the wrong way on the wrong exit *again*, and yet I couldn't help but notice the beauty of the sunshine on the trees that have finally turned color here in my part of Ohio, and suddenly there were tears on my cheeks.

I was surprised and frustrated - I was planning on 'rewarding' myself for my doctor's appointment as I normally do and stop in at a Starbucks - and I couldn't do that very well with smeared mascara.

But the tears were there, I couldn't stop them, and I didn't know why they just popped out.

Then it hit me.  A few times this fall I've had weird reactions to weird things, and it's like a flashback that I cannot explain to anyone.

This formula starting working out of my brain from somewhere:  sunny fall day + beautiful changing leaves + interstate + comfy car = long drives home from chemo treatments.

Long drive home from chemo treatments = long, long, lonely days in bed trying to recover.

Even if I don't remember, my brain somehow does.

My sister from Oregon visits annually to care for my mother for three weeks every year in September for her birthday.  Every time I thought of it in August, I had a huge hit of anxiety.

It's not what you think - my sister is a pleasure to be around.  I could not, could not for the life of me figure out why I was so dreading the first week of September - and then it hit me - last September 7th, I started another round of chemo for three months.

I thought they might truly kill me with the last go around.

My last round of chemo was called "AC" and I remember telling the nurse going over the booklet with me that "after six months of weekly doses of three chemos - one of those chemos being taken for three days each week - this one can't be that bad, right?"

I remember her looking at me sideways.

All year I have been flashing back to last year in disjointed, odd bits of memory, but this fall has been a little worse.  It's been flashbacks of laying in bed for days on end.  It's been flashbacks of my throat and trachea and lungs hurting so bad.

The last rounds of chemo were given every three weeks, and after the first one I thought "hey, not so bad".  Then a few days later my mouth broke out in sores, my esophagus felt like it had open sores the whole way down, my gastro-track considered permanently packing up and leaving, and there was a thrush-like rash all over my throat and mouth inside and out.

I could barely brush my teeth it hurt so bad.  Which is saying a lot because I was brushing my teeth about, oh, say at least five times a day during the last chemo to get the nasty taste out of my mouth.

They fixed me up with antibiotics, gave me a numbing mouthwash which they told me to not only use as a mouthwash but also to swallow so it could numb my trachea, enabling me to keep eating, and it got better after ten days.

I wasn't all that crazy about getting into the car for that second round of chemo baptism.

The second treatment knocked me down a bit more, but I was thinking 'still not the worst anyways'.  Then I got bronchitis with a cough that felt like someone was using a baby bottle brush on my yet unhealed esophagus every time I breathed.  They put me on antibiotics again, I eventually climbed out of bed and recovered, but I was pretty sure I was not going to walk into that center again for my third of four treatments.

Every time I thought about it, I shuddered.  Every time someone might mention it, my insides shrank back and I couldn't eat for a bit.

I walked through the door for the third treatment and my chemo nurses were like "you've had a hard time of it Karen" - so I'm guessing I looked just like I felt. ** (see below)

I can't remember when my red blood cells tanked so far that I needed another blood transfusion.  I can't remember the total depths of my despair although I remember well my dread of that third and fourth treatment.  I can't remember some of the drives to and from the treatment center, but warm sunshine in the same car with beautifully colored leaves makes my brain trigger enough to remember it.

So today, as I sat on the couch and Scott asked me one more time what I wanted to do for my birthday and I told him one more time, "this just feels good to me, just being here with you and not being sick", the tears started again.

My brain remembered very well that my birthday weekend last year was the last of my four dreaded chemo treatments.  I don't remember it all, but I think I crawled into bed for four days and didn't move much.

I remember parts of the slow crawl back to trying to regain some strength after my body was reeling from nine months of chemo with a surgery in between it all somewhere.  I remember the slow crawl back to trying to feel better and breathe deeply again.  I remember slowly regaining and rebuilding my red blood cells.  A huge victory a month later was being able to climb the stairs without stopping to sit down and rest at the top.

It took a good three weeks to recover enough that I didn't look and smell and feel like death, but for months afterward every time someone said the word "chemo", my body would involuntarily shudder.

I think back to that summery-hot day when my dear oncologist told me that she wanted to do the follow-up three-month round of chemo, and I was smitten, but I also thought, and even said out loud often "I can do anything for three months".

Those words don't trip out of my mouth anymore.

Looking back today, I was amazed how much Scott remembered that I didn't.  I couldn't remember who my last chemo nurse was, then he reminded me that it was my dearest favorite, Abby, my first chemo nurse at the Stephanie Spielman Center when I switched there after the James was done with my initial first five weeks of the experimental drug study.  Abby was the first nurse to give me my chemo treatment when I switched to the center in February of 2012.

Then, she was the last to administer it later that year in November.

I didn't remember that until Scott started prompting my brain a little, and reminded me of the hand sewn quilt they gave me, and reminded me of Abby's words.

She was young enough to be my daughter but she always called me "sweet Karen".

And then I shuddered again today.

I shudder every time I think on the months that I was literally destroyed to within two breaths of my life.

I don't remember it all very clearly so much, but my brain obviously does.

***

I've had several appointments the past couple of months.  I had a spot on my 5th rib, sternum side, show up twice on follow up CT scans, and I was supposed to have another CT scan three months after the last one in August.

My brain and body did not want to do it.  I know what the OSHA manual says about over-exposure to radiation.  I know each CT scan is equivalent to 250 chest X-rays.  I know you do not shed radiation.

I vainly thought I skipped through my radiation treatments the first two months of this year with little fallout, only to immediately afterward be veiled heavily within a shrouded fog that held me tight for months.

I wasn't able to think well.  I was extremely and easily fatigued.  Did I mention I wasn't able to think well?....... The fallout from radiation slammed me hard.

Late last summer I could feel myself start to climb out of the deep pit of fog and veils and start to feel more energy.  I didn't feel like I was moving clouds of mist every time I tried to do something.

But my brain didn't seem to want to catch up.

A month ago I had a follow up appointment with my radiation-oncologist, and met with her 'fellow' first.  I was one of that fellow's first patients when she started in February, my last couple of weeks of radiation, and she remembered me and took some time to catch up with me.

We went over my lingering pain.  We went over my status of 'barbecued ribs', and the pain and soreness that radiation leaves behind in your muscle and cartilage for months and years.

We went over my last bone scan and subsequent CT.

We talked about the bone spot.

I told her that I had worked that out somewhat in my mind.

Having that *spot* that wasn't a fracture, wasn't arthritis, wasn't anything they could identify - having that left to hang over my head, not knowing if it would grow or disappear, if it would throw me back into chemo for the rest of my life or I would walk out from that scan breathing a deep, deep prayer of thanks - it took a little work and a lot of prayer to get to a point of acceptance and 'knowing'.  

Knowing you might escape, or knowing you might be imprisoned for the rest of your life.  Knowing you might get a good result because of a new chemo-drug test you volunteered for, or knowing that all the extra pain and suffering didn't do you any good.  Knowing that if not this time, you stand a good realistic chance of it being next time.

The elation of beating cancer was greatly tempered this past spring and summer with the knowledge that I am high risk for recurrence, and then the ever pervading knowledge that there is a damned spot on my bone that they "are watching".

It all took a while to work out in my brain.

You have to or you curl up in bed and don't live your life given to you.

Then one of my favorite doctors ever, Dr. W., came in and did her exam.  I told her I didn't want to do another CT scan.  I told her I thought I was allergic to radiation - that it made me sick for a week after every scan.  I told her that if the "spot" ended up being nothing, I would not survive all the extra radiation given me now.

She looked at me for a minute, uncrossed her arms and said "Karen, I wouldn't worry about it."

She really did.

She continued, "And I certainly would not be doing CT scans any closer than six months".

"Period".

She told me she had looked hard at my scans and that she saw what the radiologist and my oncologist were seeing, but that in her thinking, she wouldn't have me worrying about it.

Big sigh.

Big sigh followed by a lot of questions I didn't think to ask her until I was three hours out driving home.

I met with my oncologist a few weeks later and we talked it over.  She laughed nervously when I told her I didn't know if I was brave enough to tell her I didn't want to do the three month follow up scan.

She considered it all and told me that Dr. W. was an expert in the field of radiology, and we would follow her lead.

We will wait until January to do the follow up scan.

***

All of my appointments the last two months have gone the same way - we talked about my swelling, my limitations, my bone bumps, all that I can talk about rather easily.

We talk rather seriously about the darned spot showing up on my 5th rib that is too small to biopsy.

All that is 'process-able' now.

Then we talked about my brain recovery and tears are immediately in my eyes.  I tell them I can't deal with this.  I can deal with all the rest that cancer and the subsequent treatment had done to me, but I can't deal with the brain-loss issues.

I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed.  Overwhelmed everywhere that I am planted for more than 34 minutes.  Overwhelmed in a store to the point that I have to leave and sit in the car for a while. Overwhelmed anytime there is more than one distraction to look at, listen to, react to.

I seem to have acquired a severe case of ADD.

I'm tired of having big gaps in my memory, big gaps in my math skills, big gaps in my reading cognition.

I told her I wasn't *smart* anymore, and then I started to cry.

I now know what those kids in elementary school felt like that had difficulty reading.  I used to love doing speed-reading tests, and being one of the first ones to slam my book shut loudly because not only was I done, but I could answer all the questions - I had the cognitive skills to speed-read and understand it all.

I could never beat a couple of my friends that were even faster, but I never had any issue with reading. I'm a ferocious reader, and retain lots.

Or at least I used to.

Now I don't.  I can't read more than two paragraphs without losing focus and understanding what I am reading.

Two paragraphs is an improvement - I couldn't read one paragraph in May.

If I open up an article to read it, I have learned to read the first paragraph and scan the rest - otherwise it's a long process of reading, leaving, reading a little more, forgetting, reading, forgetting and the frustration of it all just makes it mostly unpleasant.

A friend of mine just published her cancer experiences, and she said I should look into publishing my own blog posts.  I couldn't tell her that I can't stand to read my old blog posts.  I can't read more than a few paragraphs before I lose focus, and this is stuff that is me - it's my words - and yet I still can't do it.

***

The doctor I saw last week told me it was just going to take more time.

He patiently listened to me tell him my biggest fear - I'm not all there.  Twice I have watched a DVRed show with Scott, then argued with him later in the week when I turn it back on again and he says "we watched that".  I tell him we didn't, I keep telling him all through the show we didn't watch it, and then at the very end some phrase will pop up that makes me realize we maybe had watched it before.

I do not remember anything - anything about it until some phrase at the very end.

That chills me to my core.

But it has made watching old movies and reruns much more bearable.

If you visit us at our home, you may want to double check any dishes on which we serve you food.  I am keeping track after the second time, but for three time - three times - I have put away dirty dishes out of the dishwasher.

Think on that a minute.  After the first time, you kind of learn to double check the detergent thingy, wouldn't you think?  The second time, you just should realize the dishes are not looking all that sparkly and your brain should make a connection like "hey - isn't this what happened before??"

The third time, you just sit down in a heap when you realize it eight hours later.

I have left food in the oven and not remembered it until I smell something awful when turning on the oven again a week later.

I've had some epic disasters in the kitchen, the latest being ruining a 4 pound beef roast that Scott had planned our meals around for a week.  I can't cook or follow a recipe to save my life.  I finally turned out a decent meal last week and I thought Scott was going to sit down and weep.  It's been almost two years since I've had any kitchen experiences that were noteworthy.

Lucille Ball had more culinary success.

I decided to do a little cleaning, so I put some vinegar water into a kettle, and as I'm washing off surfaces, threw in some coins off of the top of the dryer that had detergent all over them thinking myself quite brilliant to soak off the detergent and clean them all in one process.  Then, I promptly poured it all down the garbage disposal two hours later.  Scott pulled out enough money to pay for three school lunches.

Everyone says they do the same thing.  It's just fast acting chemo-induce-menopause.  It's just getting older.  It's just human.

But it's not the same.  There's a hole there that feels completely different.

My doctor says my nerve endings are fried some from chemo and it will just take time for my brain to form new patterns, new connections.

My brain does not seem to be anyways interested in being an over-achiever with this feat it's supposed to be accomplishing.

He asked me a question - he said "do you realize you have used the word 'forced' twice in the last five minutes in relation to your brain recovery?"

He said you cannot, cannot force it.

Then I really started to cry and he handed me a tissue.

***

I have a new job.

I cried for two weeks when I had to give up my job that had been held open for me for well over a year, in May.

Honestly, it was three weeks.  I had little idea how much of my identity was wrapped up in my employment.

So, the beginning of this school year I have three granddaughters that are now officially first graders.  And the ones that live closest, needed reading volunteers for their class.

I raised my hand.

For an hour or so every Monday morning I go up to the school and listen to first graders come out to the hall and sit with me for a few minutes and read their books.  I jump out of bed on Monday morning at 6am and yell to Scott - "I have to get ready for my job!!"

It's a great gig.  I love it.

And the books they are reading.  I don't think those were required books until I was in the third grade.  There's none of that "see Spot run" in these first grade classes - there are some words I have to think a moment to sound out when reading them sideways.

I have to admit - I am looking over their shoulder and noting their learning process.  I am watching and listening to their math skills.  We sing-song count by fives and tens and twos every Monday morning when driving to school.

I am reminded that learning, or re-learning, is a layering process.  And it can't jump from first grade to fifth grade in a month.

It can't be forced.

I have started to crochet.  The feeling of your brain making your hands work is wonderful.  I have pulled out and remade more doll dresses than I care to count.  If you were to walk in my front door any given day, you might find me in a pile of yarn yanked out because the stitches were miscounted like 18 rows before.

But I keep doing it, keep working it, and the hand-brain connection seems to help.

At least it seems to be helping more than *luminosity* did.

***

I have thought about something I wrote down like two decades ago:  "a change of clothes does not make a changed person".

So many times in my Christian communities I have been involved in, I have noticed that people come to a Savior that they see as wonderful, healing, helpful, life changing - they see all the glory all the love all the ideals of the Kingdom of God on earth and they are so happy to finally found a *home* for their soul if you will.

Then, they seem to forget all that and accept that yeah, Jesus was great and can do great things, but they stop there and never fully change their persons.  Change their makeup.  Change their drive.  Change their ideals.

Change their core being.

If they had issues with strong or smart women before meeting Jesus, they can find a group within the church to hang out with that tells them how to do that even better and silence women.

If they dealt with the horrors of sexual abuse before meeting Jesus, they run to Him with arms open wide knowing they just found what they had been lacking in their deepest of souls.  But later, when the weeding out and the healing get to be too cumbersome, and others in the church are just downright non-supportive, it gets laid aside, and instead of becoming a new being, a new 'temple', they are merely taught to put on a set of new clothes, trying to cover up the old with something new, instead of being encouraged and helped to become 'new'.

If they dealt with pride or anger or bossiness or shyness -- everything that they dealt with before can be easily and adequately covered over in the church with new clothes.

Yet, God seems to want something different.

It seems too often instead of starting something new and beautiful and building on it layer by layer, we too easily grab onto the easiest form of reformation - or rebuilding - we find a new set of clothes that fit and make believe we have truly become new, when we haven't.  We just look better, but it's still the same crap inside.

SSDD.  That's what the world calls it.  (If you have to ask what that means, go work in an office for a while.)

I have been chewing over a study I was looking at a couple of weeks ago.  It was talking about Abraham sending his servant, Eliezer, to find a wife for his son Isaac.  The writer states that Abraham had a strong faith, but his servant did not.  I had never thought that when reading the passage before, but went with it a little.

Eliezer seemed to think it impossible to fulfill his master's request, but Abraham promised that God would "happen" in this situation to make Eliezer's journey successful.

And here, I will let Rabbi Baruch tell the rest of the story:

"When Eliezer arrived at his destination, he beheld God’s choice for Isaac, Rebecca. The words of the Torah are most unusual when describing Eliezer’s reaction to seeing Rebecca.
And the man is destroyed by her, made silent to know whether HaShem made his journey successful or not.” Genesis 24:21
Read this verse in your Bible and you will notice a significant difference. The first verb is usually rendered as “look steadfastly at her” or “was astonished by her“. The word however, literally means “to bring to destruction“, as demonstrated by its usage in Isaiah 6:11, where the verb is translated, “until the cities are laid waste“. The question that needs to be asked is simply, “what are the implications of the verse stating that Rebecca destroyed Eliezer?”
It has already been mentioned that Eliezer was not a man of faith. In other words, he doubted that Abraham’s command to travel to a distant city and find a woman who would leave her family, friends, and familiar surroundings to marry a man that she did not know or had even seen was going to be realized. Despite Eliezer’s lack of faith, he nevertheless prayed to the God of Abraham (see verse 12) that if HaShem did exist, then He should make clear to him who the right woman is. Eliezer even had a test to confirm whether God answered his prayer. Not only did Rebecca do exactly as Eliezer prayed, the text states that she, by her behavior, “destroyed” Eliezer. The intent of the verse is that Eliezer became a new man, a man of faith!
The message of this text is that Jesus does not want to change you, but destroy you and make you a new man! This is why Paul said, “If anyone should be in the Jesus, he becomes a new creation….” (See 2 Cor. 5:17). Even if you are a believer in Jesus, there are still things that God wants to destroy in your life so that you truly reflect the newness of Kingdom life. You may need to step out in faith like Eliezer did and serve your master, the Lord Yeshua, in order to see the changes that He wants to bring into your life. Be aware that God does not remodel, He builds on a new foundation.

I connected strongly to this in that I feel that I have been completely destroyed the past two years.  Not only has my body been laid low and wasted, my thinking is not the same.  I am not the same person in a lot of ways.  In most ways.  And yet, when all is lost, when I am destroyed, there is hope that God can use this, build this into something.

I struggle with the building as much as I struggled with the destroying.

***

I cannot write this without saying how incredibly blessed I am.  Destroyed, but blessed.

God has laid His hand on me, and walked by me, and is layering upon the brand new foundation new things.  I still awake every morning and bless Him for being alive.  I bless God for breathing into me the breath of life each day.

It's not something I take for granted now.

Maybe us-peoples walking through cancer-land understand the walk through the fire a little deeper than others, maybe we might understand being 'rended apart' a little deeper than others, I don't know, that might all be up for debate.

But what we might really know well, is being 'destroyed'.  It's pretty difficult to walk through almost two years of diagnosis, treatment and recovery and not especially know about being 'destroyed'.

To be destroyed, and to be less in many areas - yet to feel so blessed and so full for life and so open to life now is beyond me to describe or to detail, but it's true.

I have been destroyed, yet layer by layer God builds and gives and helps and heals and binds.

And makes me so incredibly happy to be here to celebrate this birthday.





**This is a link to the post for the miraculous things that happened that week before my third treatment - I had to look it up - I couldn't remember it all..... http://hiddenplacessongsofdeliverance.blogspot.com/2012/11/priestly-visits.html  (but, I will never forget the trip with Polly, the woman who sought me out and breathed on me the courage to continue.)






















Thursday, September 19, 2013

Surprise!!

WE'RE HAVING A PARTY!!!  And SHHH!  It's a SURPRISE!!

In an effort to make up for lost time for almost a year and a half, we have instigated monthly "Cousin's Sleepovers".  They are great, great, great fun - especially if you are fond of having five little screaming banshees swirling around for a while.

And whew, when that door shuts as the last one leaves and the house is quiet again, I. sit. down.  Then have a few little tears because the house is suddenly quiet again.  Then Scott and I talk about our awesome offspring for a few days.

Non-stop.

Heaven help the folks in the grocery store that see us and ask us an innocent "What's happening in your world?"  And they hear about our awesome offspring that are the bestest, cutest, sweetest, orneriest kids ever.

And that's just to the sales help and cashiers that we don't know.

The ones we do know, you see them start to inch away towards the seafood section about 18 minutes into "story-time".

In February, the granddaughters and I planned a SURPISE!! birthday party for Popop, aka, Scott.  It was nothing short of hilarious watching the plans go down.  Obviously, the most fun part was the SECRET!

To get the whole shabang here, you kind of have to say that word with your hands to the side of your mouth, say it in a really loud whisper and make a sweet little lisp with the "S" sound.

Addy would call her Popop and say "we have a surprise!!"  Then she would say, "it's a secret about your birthday".  Finally, giggling and obviously holding her hand over her mouth she would say "I'm NOT supposed to tell you about your PARTY!!"

If you were to ask Addy to this day - she happily and confidently tells you she is really good at keeping secrets.

Chloe and Zoe were kind all 007 over it - they would run upstairs sliding secretly down the hallway to get different crayons to work on Popop's "surprise birthday party poster" - and they would say things such as "DON'T ask us what we are doing in the basement, Popop - it's a SURPRISE for you and you are not supposed to know".

Popop would torment them and pretend like he was going to go downstairs and they would yell "NO!" and slam the door so he wouldn't see their artwork until the proper time.

Even though they just left it lay there when it was time to go home.

It was a lot of fun.

So, for the first sleepover, I told the three older girls that we were going to have a surprise! party for Milliebeans birthday.  They were pretty good at keeping it quiet, but again a lot of giggling, a lot of planning, a lot of "what ifs".  Like, 'what if she doesn't show up?"

I told them all I would be driving her in my car, so I was pretty sure she would be there.

A month later, it's another one's birthday and so we have been furiously whispering, and planning how to yell SURPRISE! and wondering to each other just what the birthday girl might do at the moment of realization.

They just learned the term "pee myself", so that seems to be the growing speculation of what might happen with surprised birthday girls....

For the sleepover-turned-into-surprise-party planned for tomorrow night, it appears the cat is out of the bag.  You can't trust five-year-olds to keep too much under their hats.  Or in their mouths.

Actually, that's why we do it - it's so dang-gone fun to hear them plan and almost tell, plan and whisper and giggle, then plan and OOPS!  it slipped out.

Milliebeans just called me with her confession - "I was just whispering to mommy - and ADDY HEARD ME SAY IT!" she yelled into the phone.

Which is kind of remarkable, because Addy doesn't hear lower voices all that well.

Her mom said it was just like that, except for the "whispering" part......

We laughed and laughed.  Millie and me.  Addy and me.  Then her mommy and me.

Popop said "Milliebeans - you spilled the beans!"  

***

So I asked Addy what she was wanting for her birthday.  I had made her sister twin blankets to go with her Bitty Baby Twins.  I kept going and made two burp cloths.  Then a changing pad.

It turned out better than I expected after, oh, maybe a fifteen year siesta from sewing.  Not great or perfect by any means, but better than I thought it would.

When I asked Addy what she wanted for her doll, she replied immediately "A sleeping bag!!"

So, I started to make one.  Then made two.  And I thought and I thought what to add to them and suddenly my brain said "TENT!  Make a tent!"

Which in some stories is where they insert what they call "the beginning of the end".

I thought I could just whip it out in like two hours - how hard could a tent be - a couple of supports, some fabric stretched over it and Voila!  - you have a tent.

American Girl doll factory, eat your heart out.

I'm on my way to keeping $75 in my pocket.

I didn't have a pattern.  Why, why, would one spend money on a pattern and directions on something so simple??

The fool asks in her heart.

While starting to measure and cut and think and sew it all seemed to start to take shape nicely.

Then, the world tottered a little on its axis and my best laid plans crumpled on the dining room table.

I said the words "no, no, no, no, NO!" maybe 15,478 times.

I hit my head on the table a few times.  Just softly bumping it, but it fell hard sometimes when realizing the error of my way.

The mess just kept getting bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger.  I couldn't think of a way to remedy the flaps - simple tent flaps took well over three hours to simmer inside my brain, bubbling noisily, seeking solution.

I got out the seam ripper and ripped.  I got out the rolling cutter again and cut it down.

Then realized I didn't want it cut down.

I got out the second seam ripper because I couldn't find where I laid down the first one.

If you saw a picture of my dining room table full of tent fabric and cotton batting and cardboard that didn't work and plastic that didn't work and a tomato stake poll that didn't work - you would have also seen my kitchen scissors lying there in the midst of it all, because I mislaid two - TWO - pairs of sewing scissors.

My brain cannot remember where anything has been laid down.  I have systems worked out for car keys, makeup, kitchen knives, anything I want to find more than once.  But anything laid lazily, mindlessly, errantly aside, is gone forever in my brain these days.

And obviously gone from the home as well - I still haven't found either pair of sewing scissors.

Back to the tent flaps, I was almost in the throes of despair and desperation and very close to dialing the number on the website for the American Doll store, wondering with a sinking feeling just how much overnight shipping was going these days, when in walked Scott.

I was a pretty dismal sight.  I told him I had this spankin' idea, it all looked good in my head this morning, but it just wasn't going to work.

I asked him if he knew how much overnight shipping was now.

He surveyed the current work situation, and said decidedly: "we are going to Joann's".

Just the fact that Scott said that should raise a few eyebrows.  Scott has layers of beliefs:  God, family, country, history, baseball and the firm belief that Joann Fabrics is the seventh layer of hell laid out in Dante's Inferno.

So if you know Scott, you more than likely know his disdain for fabric stores, leaving you with the heavy knowledge that he definitely took a bullet for the team here and that I must have looked pretty dismal for those words to even fall out of his mouth.

*Decidedly*, fall out of his mouth.  

And he fixed it.  He and the sales lady found the foam board to use, along with insisting I buy enough velcro, because dangit, I. am. cheap. and velcro is expensive.  

I sat down this morning at the sewing machine and put five, ok six, more hours into a one hour job.

But it's completed, and we are decorated all up for a little party tomorrow night.

***

I was laying on the couch the other night as I have been mostly the last two weeks after 6pm, (and that's after my 3pm nap) and I told Scott I think I knew what was wrong with me the past couple of weeks.

He looked at me as only a husband can when wanting to listen to sports but knowing he needs to feign interest because his beloved wife is making a statement.

He paused the tv, looked at me, and I said:  "I think I'm allergic to radiation."

I have been wiped out the last couple of weeks.  There is the kind of 'wipe-out' when you are stressed and I know that kind and it just wasn't it.

It was very reminiscent of the kind of wipe-out you feel when your white blood cells have tanked and your red blood cells fall right down the black hole after them.  There just wasn't any energy reserve.  I didn't need to take sleep meds again.

Which has happened only twice in the last two decades of my life - the first being the six weeks I was in - feel my brain racing for connection here -- radiation - and the wipe-out period of the three months following.

So my brain is making some connections, and it connected this fatigue back to radiation.

I told him that when the scans start, I can smell the radiation.  My nose feels funny and the room feels different.  I can feel it's presence as it goes down my body.

Call me crazy, call me dense, but I know radiation, and it makes me almost sick when the machine starts to scan my body.

I continued with one more statement before he un-paused the tv.  I told him I didn't think I should have anymore scans.

He looked at me, smiled, then waited a bit.  He didn't say anything, just eventually turned back to sports.

He knows I'll go back for my follow-up scan.  I know I'll go back for my follow-up scan.  But we both know I hate the 'smack-downs' that seem to come afterwards.  

***

Someone sent me a video clip of a young pastor with brain cancer.  I watched five minutes of it, and then our electricity had to be cut because our son was working on our lights, and then Scott was home and I knew I shouldn't watch it in front of him, but I could not agree more with what the guy had to say in the first five minutes.

None of us know "our time".

None of us know the day, the hour, the place, the cause of our demise.

But if there's one thing that the last almost two years have taught me, it is the knowledge that I know I "need to number my days" and make them count, because there is a countdown going on, and sometimes, sometimes, you get a "heads-up" that it might be sooner than you thought.

It might not be, but then again it might.

We could walk outside one day and be struck by lightening.  We could be driving down 71 and be the one leaving in the ambulance, having your car towed away on top of a flatbed truck.  Anyone of us could have something, somewhere sometime go wrong with our bodies and not get home that night.

It's a fact of life.

What's difficult is knowing that you are closer to the end of that line than you thought.  It's difficult knowing this was your life and you spent it like a fool sometimes.  It's difficult realizing your loved ones just might not know how much you cared, because you just didn't have time.

It's difficult - but it impresses on you to change up some things.  Change up the fact that you need to connect more.  Change up the fact that relationships are more important than we ever imagined.  Change up the fact that what you do tomorrow will affect the future of someone - whether you do it or not, it will affect them.

So we are taking the time tomorrow to have a little party.  Our house will be trashed.  Their imaginations are astounding when it comes to using everyday objects to make outstanding, spectacular palaces.  Or messes, whichever side of six years old you land on.

But it's pretty glorious, and we love to watch them and play with them and talk with them and interact with them - they are pretty amazing.

We want them to know how much we cared.

Because now more than ever we know, you get just one life to live.







Wednesday, September 11, 2013

It's that time of year again.....

Like most Americans, I remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2011.  I was at the Bailey Lakes Veterinary Office taking calls until someone could come in and take over the phone, then I was on my way to another office.  I had the radio on while I was taking morning phone calls and went back to tell the veterinarian and assistant doing surgeries that "a plane had run into one of the twin towers".  That's kind of how the news was going the first ten minutes maybe - that some loony-toons idiot got off course and ran his little airplane into a skyscraper in New York city.

That was not that hard to believe.

What was hard to believe was what happened next.  It was hard to hear our president say the words "America is under attack".  It was hard to comprehend that someone could hi-jack an airliner  full of fuel and plow it into a building. It was hard to believe that America could be attacked, period.

That was hard to believe.

People leaving the second tower because they saw what had happened to the first tower were told "your building is secure, go back to work".  One man had started to leave the lobby of the south  tower, heard the intercom announcing 'safety', looked at his bosses in the elevator holding the door for him to go back up, decided it was safe, and went back up to his desk on the 81st floor.

We Americans hate to over-react.

We Americans could not believe there would be something worse still after the first plane hit.

I remember very clearly that day my feeling of dread growing in my belly.  I knew on a different level what this day meant.  I knew we could not suffer this attack without declaring war somewhere on some level.

I knew the attack meant that every soldier in the United States was immediately put on alert.  I knew it meant that every soldier was suddenly checking his gear.  I knew it meant every soldier set their eyes forward and readied themselves for a callup.

I needed to connect to the soldier in my life that morning.  I called my son and took a long go-around to stop in to see him and finally get a chance to watch the actual footage of what was happening.

We all knew as a family instantly what was happening as we watched the footage on tv that day with horror - there was going to be a war - and things were never going to be the same.  Ever.

***

Sitting at one of my son's Psyop graduation ceremonies a year earlier, we were told that the soldiers and their families seated in that auditorium should all prepare for deployment.  Not a deployment in ten years, not a deployment after years and years of training, but a rapidly approaching turn of world events was indicating a deployment soon.  It was going to happen so be prepared.  They didn't know where, they didn't know how, but it would be happening and they needed to be prepared.

I remember praying that it wouldn't happen.  I remember thinking this was a military base and they were just over-reacting to the recent events in the world, and even though I myself thought the times felt "pregnant" to produce mayhem, I prayed we were all wrong.

'Things' just didn't happen in America.  We were all safe here.  'Things' happened everywhere else, but not here.

But now with my son's involvement in the military, my family was tethered to the fact that a war would be felt intensely because someone we all loved would be one of the first responders to any threat or attack.

My family, dispersed all over, all watched the tv closely on 9/11 like every other American that day - with horror, and sharp intakes of breath, and prayers for all involved - but we also watched it maybe one level deeper as maybe all military families did that day as well - we knew it meant what the speaker at the ceremony had said a year before we should all be prepared for - we knew it meant war.

My husband, my daughters, myself all knew that the little five year old boy that had practiced throwing his GI Joe's out his bedroom window with paper towel parachutes, then himself believing he could do the jump as well - and he did with minimal damage - we all knew that little boy that mostly wore a too big camo shirt that he continued wearing for four more years making it become too small - we all knew that boy that we loved was going to be thrown into harm's way fast.

And a dread was implanted inside of us that would stay there solidly until we saw that grown boy-man walk back into his unit base four years later and hug his mother and father and sisters like he had been brought back from the dead.

It was a dread that most Americans not connected to the military did not understand nor know.

Even after 9/11.

***

The feeling of "sense of pregnant dread" growing within me has occurred several times in my life.  Most recently, fighting cancer has seen that deep "knowing-dread" return.

It's difficult for me to explain. We have known loss and sorrow.  We have known financial loss a couple times over.  We have lost our home and belongings in a house fire - driving away with half of a pick-up truck load of things retrieved.  We have suffered intense emotional grief at the hands of those that we thought we could trust that handed back suffering and heartache beyond words.

My daughter sent me a card one time that I have treasured, and it said "just the fact that you said our house fire was anti-climatic".....  And it was.  Losing everything in a fire was not as difficult as listening to a child tell you of horrors they experienced at the hands of people I thought cared and loved us.

There is a beat of a different drum with those that have suffered and tried to walk it out with God.  You can always tell the "fake traumatics" - I've listened to Christian radio a lot in my past and would literally cry out to God to make some of them just stop.

Just stop giving platitudes.  Just stop repeating paragraphs in someone's book telling you how to "handle it".  Just stop sounding like suffering is not what it is because God will teach you differently.

I have lived long enough to hear those same ones that "trotted" through suffering on a rainbow of sunshine and love in God's fake-front universe they created, hit the earth hard when faced with the fact that it was not so, and God was walking them not out of suffering, but directly into it's belly.

Suffering is difficult.  It is overwhelming at times.  It can wash you out to sea if you are not careful.
And suffering is where God can teach you some of the deepest things.  It's where you learn most about needing others and creating honest community with those around you.

***

Watching the news the past couple of weeks, you don't have to be a learned theologian to at least raise one eyebrow on the happenings in the world about us.

Especially if you read Revelations, Daniel, Isaiah.

No matter how you interpret those prophecies, or even if you believe they are prophecies, there is no denying that we are hurtling towards something of great dread again.

Someone was telling me a couple of weeks ago about a speaker they had heard, and relayed that he believed that we were in the "end times".  Right now.

He believed that soon we will see the "abomination of desolation" go up in Israel.  He believes it will happen close to Passover, and when we see that, we should "head to the wilderness".  He relates it to Exodus and says that during the last three and a half years of tribulation, we will have to leave our homes and basically live in the wilderness areas where God will guide us just as he did the Israelites when they left Egypt.  He thinks the 'second Exodus' will happen right after Passover, just like it did in Egypt.

He notes that "God will guide us".  And further, he commented that there will be a huge apostasy, where many will turn away from Christ because they thought they would not have to go through any of the tribulation period........and when (if) they find they do, they cannot handle it.

Lots of people believe lots of different things.  Some believe we will be "raptured" out and not see any suffering.  Some believe we will go "mid-trib" - meaning in the middle of the tribulation.  Some believe that it will not be until after the tribulation that the rapture will happen.

Some don't believe any of it and think that it was prophecy meant for another time, another generation.

Honestly, I don't get into those arguments.  After years and years of reading the Bible, collecting other's views on it, and turning it over and over in my mind, I always come to one ending - we are told to know the Word so that when things happen we say "Ahh!  That's what that meant!"

I'm afraid we spend way too much time pondering other's words, and not the Word of God.

At any rate, I have come to the conclusion that the above speaker's words are true in the fact that "many do not think they will go through tribulation" (my paraphrase).

Whether there will be a great tribulation or not, there is no reason to believe that America is immune to suffering, wars, attacks, and great loss of life.  Many people in Europe during WWII believed they were living in the "Great Tribulation" - but it wasn't.  And that was suffering at it's worst.

I wonder a lot how Americans would look in that situation.  I'm so afraid this generation, this time in the life of our country, we would maybe look a lot like the greedy, self-important Americans portrayed in any number of "reality shows".

I mean, really, what other "heroes" on tv are there for our youth to pattern themselves after?

Outwit, outlast, outplay.  That's kind of become our mantra.

***

Except for the past two years of my life.  God has opened a side journey to me that has been remarkable in how He has bestowed upon me the idea of community and just how really important that is.

We don't get by in life by outwitting, outlasting and outplaying our co-workers.  We are not allowed to let grief and sin and hurt and spite grow in our midst - superficially 'forgiving' but not correctly - and not have it affect the whole body of believers.

This time of year brings me once again to the beginning of my journey - Yom Kippur - The Day of Atonements.  The day that the Bible commands we keep.  The day that some believe that God's ear is closest to His creation.

The Jews have a saying or belief that "there are 70 faces to every Word of God".  Seventy levels of understanding on each scripture.

Today, I believe that.  Last year, Yom Kippur was all about regretting, and re-examing and re-trying all the hurts I had done to others - both intentional and unintentional.  Trust me, being in the midst of chemo, I had a lot of time to review, repair and truly repent and make right where it was needed.

This year, I have been listening to a Kaballah Rabbi and his whole take on Yom Kippur and Rosh Hoshannah is that it is the idea of "returning".

He tells the story of a prince whose father, the king, thought should get to know his subjects, his people.  The king sent him out to live amongst them, leaving his royal clothes behind, leaving his servants, his royal food, his royal carriages.  He was to learn the dialect of the common people and learn what made them happy, what grieved them, how hard it was to live under some royal laws and what made good royal laws.

Basically, he was to learn life to make him better for his future.

After several years of living in the midst of the people he one day sees the royal carriage go by in parade and says "Hey!  That's my father - the father I miss so much!"  and he runs to the castle only to be denied admittance.  The guards do not recognize him.

They won't allow him entrance.

He starts to cry bitterly and yells "Abba!"  "Father!"  "Daddy!"  "Let me in, please".  His father hears him through an open window and realizes his son has returned.

And that is what the Rabbi was teaching that these fall festivals the Bible talks about were to bring us to:  a returning.

Sometimes we are not overwhelmed with our grievous sins over the past year.  Sometimes, we just need to look up and see the royal carriage going by and realize we miss our Father so much.

We need to return.

***

As I watch the world news, and frown at the import of this time in our history and the history of the world, I feel we as a nation are far from a 'return'.

Before going into temple in the time of Jesus, Jews would do a mikvah.  It's kind of like a "bath" idea, but not meant to be an actual bodily cleansing bath, but rather a symbol of entering before God with purity and holiness.  They say "My heart, my hands, my feet, my head" - purifying their hearts, their works (hands), their feet (journeys), and head (thoughts) and sanctifying it all before God.

That's kind of an awesome idea.  To return, I visualize a mikvah and turn it all over to God.

The Jews have another idea correct - the idea of suffering and all that it entails.  It's not about being positive, dismissing any "negativity", getting out of the gutter, pulling oneself up by the bootstraps or any such phenomena.

To return to the above speaker, I am concerned about where our church is at when it comes to suffering - because - because - what if we have to suffer?????

We have hundreds of thousands of soldiers returning from a place in the world that was not safe, nor may never be and their senses have been alerted to a fact most of us pretend is not there:  America could be paralyzed on any given day.  They don't have the sense of safety that they left their military bases with long ago.  

We have hundreds of thousands of soldiers that have suffered severely, seen death and carnage, and cannot shake that.  They feel they walk on a different plane in this country.  They know things that most others don't.  They have seen things most others cannot comprehend happening.

They are aware there is great suffering in the world, and they fear it is knocking on our very door now.  They don't understand how others can be so incredibly blind.

Once I was pointed in the direction of PTSD for my own emotional health, I started to research it, of course, on the internet.

Almost all of PTSD searches end with soldiers returning home.

Returning is so difficult.

Returning to a people that don't want to hear, or don't want to acknowledge that there is hurt and suffering and that we so need the idea of community in our lives - returning to what looks like superficiality is most devastating.

Returning to a people that believe all we have to do is outwit, outlast, outplay our fellow humans without any complications or considerations or consequences is beyond their depth of perception.

They come home sometimes because someone else sacrificed themselves for them.  They come home sometimes with eyes that hurt every time they see a child alongside of the road.  They come home sometimes and cannot fit in, because they are told to "forget it".  "Live a little".  "Don't let it consume you".

They come home to a people they went to war for, that do not understand them, and they cannot tell anyone of the suffering they have seen because no one wants to hear it.

I relate to that.

And I relate to a rabbi telling a tale about a king in a kingdom far away that wants to hear all about the kingdom at it's worst and best, what happens at it's very core.  Because in hearing the bare facts, one can make a difference.  In understanding suffering, one can draw near to a King and whisper the hardship and suffering he observed and felt himself in His ear, allowing us to walk through it all and have us make a difference along the way.

But if we refuse to learn suffering now, how do we react to it when we need to know?

Most Amercians plan on the rapture happening before they suffer.  And it might.

But what if it doesn't?

Can we walk that journey, or have we spent too much time trying to not understand hardship and difficulty and suffering to believe that none of that can happen inside the kindgom of God?

Even when we have watched and read and seen with our very eyes that suffering is a lot of times what God walks us directly into?

Can we walk into that wilderness and trust God for each drink of water, each morsel of food?  Can we stand and watch others being slaughtered and still not have it shake our faith and still cling to the One that created life?

Can we be laid low with a disease that decimates us, and still belong to a God that is loving?

***

I am sick to my toes of listening to people "preach" about our welfare state, about food stamp abuse, about all the things they feel self-righteously-smug about, having never weathered anything close to any suffering to place them in those positions.

We all know there are abuses, but we all know there is great need.  I talk to patients every time I sit in a waiting room that have lost their jobs, lost their homes, lost everything to fight cancer.  They are suffering ten-fold.

Our streets are full of homeless veterans that cannot connect back to the lifestyle of the rich and carefree when stepping back onto their home-soil.

Our hard-heartedness has contributed to this need.

We need to be so careful to not be the one saying "Your building is secure.  Return to your places".

I close with this piece, a portion of a Berean's Online newsletter.  You may want to read it as maybe you will be sent walking the path of suffering one day....

...We are tempted to "exercise righteous judgment" when we observe others. What we may not understand, is that there is a difference between judging deeds, and judging faith. While it is true that faith and deeds are inseparable, when it comes to others we are never instructed to judge their faith.

But we do. A lot. Sometimes we do it in the most egregious ways. We even do it in response to people in pain. We hear questions like, "Why is G-d doing this to me?" and immediately launch into lectures about the consequences of sin, or HaShem trying to get their attention. Or worse, we smugly answer the question in our minds as we look down our noses at their lack of faith. But such questions are not lacking in faith. In fact, they are founded upon the deepest faith of all – the belief that HaShem is working in this world, and the one in pain not understanding how HaShem's plan is revealed in pain. The faithless do not ask such questions.

At other times, we listen to the people express their "faith" in unscriptural ways. They make theologies up out of whole cloth. Our response too often is to dismiss them and their misguided doctrine – considering them completely blind to G-d. Even though we do not see their hearts, and cannot know the questions and struggles that they face – and whether HaShem is watering seeds of faith that have yet to spring forth in visible fruit. We may have a list of "non-negotiable" doctrinal points (which may be correct), and use them to discount the power of the Almighty in the lives of others. In which case, who is the one lacking faith?

Should we judge our own deeds, and our neighbors? Yes, with HaShem’s righteous standard, the Torah. May we judge others "lack faith"? G-d forbid.

Who are you to pass judgment on the servant of another? It is before his own master that he stands or falls. And he will be upheld, for the L-rd is able to make him stand.
Romans 14:4

And this for now, closes my thesis on suffering.  My day of atonement is close at hand, then we feast and celebrate and do indeed count our blessings.  For there are many even in the desert of suffering.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

The Chattering

It has always amazed me after every blog post, the outpouring of phone calls, emails, messages, notes and just plain love.  Some folks, like me, are very private and don't respond online.  Others, respond openly and beautifully.

Sometimes, when I put up a 'painful' post - a post that is not about overcoming, a post that portrays the pain one feels at times - I doubt myself and consider taking it down like fifteen times throughout the night.  I almost did this last one.

Then, we got a couple of phone calls this morning.

Cancer isn't the only suffering going on in the world.  I don't have to watch my baby have thirty seizures in one day and look at painful choices to remedy it.  I don't have to sit in a prison cell and grieve myself and my family over wrongs I did to society.  I don't have to wonder about my husband's fidelity.  I don't have to put on a prosthetic leg and arm when I go out, like so many of our returning soldiers do.  I don't have searing pain where my children are concerned - they have problems like everyone - but I'm not having to post bail for them or visit them in rehab.

There's a lot of pain in the world, a lot of suffering, and what I have come to conclude about it all is that Christians don't do pain and suffering very well.

Over three decades ago I was introduced to two books that changed my world view.  One was John Bunyun's "Pilgrim's Progress".  The other was "Hind's Feet in High Places".  Both books take a fledgling soul and start them on a journey.

In my early twenties, I started to look at my life in that manner - I am on a journey.  I am walking a path that sometimes is broad and green and warm and pleasant, and sometimes I am on a path that is fraught with peril and storms and lightening flashes all around, and I have no protection from it.

It changed my whole view on life.

In John Bunyun's book, there were off-streets along the way, and the journey was mostly alone except for times of trouble when there were those leading you into harm's way, and those leading you out.

In Hind's Feet, the journey was to the top of a tall mountain and the life lessons, heart lessons, soul lessons learned along the way.

Both of those books so hugely important to Christians for decades and decades, reflect pain and suffering.

That tells me one thing - the idea that you shouldn't deal with pain and suffering is relatively new on the Christian scene.

Maybe a couple of decades of living with the gospel of "Positive Thinking" impacted us more than we like to admit.  Maybe a couple of decades of sinking into the "Prosperity Gospel" has painted our wagons a different color - I don't know.  

Maybe the Power of Positive Thinking and the Prosperity Gospel ideas were a backlash against generations of Christians being a little too snug and content in their misery.  Again, I don't know.

All I know, is that Christians say the damnedest things.

Especially when you hurt deep inside.

Things like "just don't think about it".  Or, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle". And some of the best "well at least it wasn't as bad as you thought"...... huh?  How bad does bad have to go to get a sympathetic ear at times?

Anytime the words "malignant neoplasm" are clumped together in a phone call from my doctor or on "My Chart" web page, my insides shrink a little and tears come to my eyes.  Words put into phrases like "observation for suspected malignant neoplasm"  hits hard in the mid-section of your body.

As I process all of those words, I need some time.  I need a sympathetic hug.  I need a sympathetic ear.

I don't need preaching.  I don't need to hear what God taught you thirty years ago and you have nothing to compare to suffering since then and cannot relate.  I don't need to hear comparisons - like well "at least you aren't losing your leg".  Or, "at least you are still alive".  That might help later, but when you've been body slammed in the depths of the valley, comparisons don't help.

I don't need to hear what you want it to be.  Like, if a doctor gives you points A, B and C - and if "A" is the worst case scenario and "C" the best case scenario, don't just talk to me about "C".  My brain doesn't work that way.  I have to logically think through the worst case scenario, the best case scenario, and where I might land, and then my brain has to decide what is the best way to proceed from there.

Sometimes, there are few if any positives.

Sometimes you have to wade through a lot of negatives and weigh out which one is best.  After you process that, then God can start to open the door for blessing - or positives - but when seeking out answers being constantly reminded to "look at the positive" doesn't do anything.

If Madame Curry had only looked at the positives, we wouldn't have the discovery that radiation was bad, but also good and could be used to kill cancer cells. If Selman Waksman didn't discover that a nasty fungus could produce a powerful antibiotic, most of our ancestors that fought in WWII would not have produced us.  Who knew nasty molds make brilliant antibiotics?  So, yeah, we all know that we have to look at the nasty stuff and eventually it can be turned into good, but you do have to look at the nasty stuff.  You do.

It's not about the glass being half empty.  I am amazed how much Christians say they hate modern day psychology, but quote it nonetheless.

I'm guessing it's because they watch Dr. Phil a lot more than they listen to or read their Bibles.

And maybe this is what this all boils down to:  if we knew our Bibles, we would know what to do in the face of pain and suffering.

Jeremiah cried out to God when thrown into a muddy pit for his prophecies.  Just a hint - if you don't diss Jeremiah for crying out, don't diss the people under the umbrella of suffering now.

David covered himself in ashes and fasted and wept and prayed to God when he knew that his new baby was going to die.  Jesus went off to pray in a lonely place.  And duly note please, that he sweat drops of blood and wept when praying in the face of suffering.

Why does the Bible note that God catches each one of our tears?  That's one of the most tender, touching things to my soul and I visualize that when I allow myself the grieving.

And if the notes and emails and phone calls are any indication, I'm not the only one feeling very alone in the midst of Christians telling me how to handle it all.

***

I think I should have done what I originally intended to do after the long day of CT scan, waiting, drinking water, waiting, drinking more water, and wait some more.

I intended to fast and pray and not "connect" until my soul was in a better place.  I intended to grieve whatever it would be, alone with God and process it until I could talk about it.

Good intentions pave the road to Hell my mother always said.  (that's not in the Bible in case you wonder)

I fell asleep after we got home that night, then Scott woke me up around 9:00 and said "everyone wants to know what the results were - you need to type something."

That, my friends, just made me mad.

First of all, no one would even know that I had results yet.  Secondly, it was late at night - at least for me - really?  I have to let them know now, really?  I know better than to type when I'm mad.

I was already pissy because I just didn't like the results.  I knew I needed time to process it all.

Or let me say this another way - I knew I needed time to collect my thoughts before I could handle all of the lame "Christianese" thrown my way.

Sorry.  But I was told this week that I needed to be more honest here, so honest it is.

I say this knowing that the wrong people will get the wrong messages here.  A lot of people have been so kind, so caring, so supportive throughout all of this.  And I know a lot of people just don't know what to say, and this will probably reinforce that thinking, making them never say anything again.

I'm not talking to you.

For those of you that have been so kind, stop reading here.  The rest, let me skool you.

And I 'skool' you for one reason only - I'm not the only one hurting.  The others just don't blog about it.

When anyone is suffering there are all different levels, all different processes, all different types.  My simple advice is this:  Do NOT respond until you know what level, know the type and know where the person is at in the process of suffering.

You find that out by asking two questions:  "How are you doing with this?"  And then you ask "What do you need?"

Really.  It's that easy.

Those two questions clue you into exactly what your response should be.  Sometimes my responses to the first question have been "I can't quit crying".  Or, "I'm numb".  Or, "I'm over the initial shock, I'm processing".

And then, what do I need?  I need a hug.  And please know, I'm not a hugger, but that has been my most surprising response at times.  I need you to hand me kleenex while I sit here and cry.  I need you to just sit and grieve it with me.  I need you to remind me that I can be strong in this weakness.  I need you to remind me to keep in the fight.  I need you to remind me that God is close.  I need you to massage my hurt soul and spirit and help it stay on the journey.

My most recent response surprised even me - I need you to listen to me rant for thirty-five minutes so I can get this anger out and move on.  I don't believe in ranting, but boy can I do it well. I know it's the fastest way for my personality type to process - get the ugly out then I can look at the facts.

I have not been angry this whole entire side road journey of cancer-land.  Not because I am so immune to it, but I think it's because I have had to deal with hideous things before, I know the grieving process, I learned how to do suffering a little already, and I learned a long time ago it doesn't help to get so angry that you cannot proceed.

But when my daughter called and asked me that afternoon if I had any results yet, I said "No, and I'm just so pissed about it all".

And I was surprised - where did that come from?

My journey the last six months has been all about accepting my limitations, and I haven't been very happy about being *limited*.

And you can't talk about it.  Because it makes one sound damned ungrateful if one says "I'm alive, but I'm pissed I can't work in the garden".  Or, "I'm alive, but I can't eat carbs and not get sick, and I have a limited diet that I'm not ok with yet".  Or, "I'm alive, but I am constantly aware that I cannot lift anything or do work for more than an hour or get stung or cut myself, because if I do my lymph-gland-lacking-body goes all crazy and my left side swells up".

And the most difficult, "I'm alive, but I don't know when my brain will come back so I can sit in a group and talk and think with you all".

So when I finally said out-loud, "yeah, it's pissing me off", I should not have been surprised, but I was.

(oh yes.  Mommy has a potty-mouth when she's dealing with anger....)

***

So, all that brings us to the results of the CT scan.

I didn't want it to work out this way, but because Scott insisted on going with me Monday, we had to get home early because he had to go to work the next day.  I knew why he wanted to go, but I wanted the day to look differently.

A while ago I had set up two days with my daughter Kristi to care for Baby Bird - that Monday and Tuesday.  I had hoped to squeeze in a little Millie-Bean time on her birthday as well.  I was so pleased to be able to feel well enough to spend the time with her, and also viewed it as a way that I could possibly help maybe 'payback' Kristi and her husband a little for all the open hospitality they had given us over the last almost two years while I was in Columbus getting treatments.

The CT scan scheduling kind of messed up those two days for a lot of people.

While we were waiting that afternoon for the callback from my doctor, we ate out, shopped with utmost lackluster, and then stopped in at Kristi's.

No phone call.  We left there intending to stop in and see the birthday girl on the way home and I kind of thought I would not be getting a phone call that day after all.

While celebrating and playing a little, my phone rang.

I walked into a bedroom, closed the door and chatted a little with Dr. Mrozik.  The door burst open and two girls trying to find their best doll-playing-partner barged in and as Heidi gathered them up, ushering them back out she looked at me and made the thumbs-up or thumbs-down gesture, wanting to know which way the call was going.

I turned my thumb sideways.  It wasn't the good news I was hoping for, but it wasn't the bad news of going back into chemo.  Yet.

Dr. M said it's not a fracture.  That's what I think my logical brain was wanting her to say.

It's not inflammation as it is not in the soft tissue.

It's not arthritis, which was my last hope.

It's too small to biopsy right now.  She said her concern of course was that it was a malignant neoplasm which kind of makes my blood run a little cold every time I hear those words.  Especially, when she is looking at the rib bone at the sternum.  The scar area is where most cancers of this type recur the most.  And judging by the way she examines that area, I'm guessing she has seen that happen more than once.

I know all the medical come-backs - I know she has to be extra safe.  I know she has to be extra concerned.  But the bottom line is that there is a bump inside my bone that she has to be "extra-safe" about.

I go back in three months for another scan.

***

Sometimes, doctors make verbal slip-ups and don't really realize what they just told you.  Two come to mind when dealing with this - one was my radiologist oncologist asking me why I was balking so much at doing radiation.  I told her that I knew radiation comes back around and bites you in the ass in twenty years.

She told me, "let's not worry so much about the twenty years, and just get you to four years".

Ok.

The other comment was from my oncologist when we were worried after the first bone scan about another spot and she told me she didn't like her patients to have bone scans closer together than five months.

Now we are going every three months.

***

While I am raging and ranting, I keep coming back to one of my favorite soap boxes:  the north american church has dropped the ball on so many things.

I'm sorry - I know a lot of you are pastors, teachers, believers and I mean you no disrespect.  But I can't help but feel like with all of the work being poured into the church, we are missing some things.

I believe that if the North Amercian church was doing it's job properly, biblically, we would be leading the world in the field of psychology.  Why we have walked away with the idea that our psyche or soul or spirit - call it what you want - are all disconnected I don't know.  Just reading a few Psalms tells you differently.

Instead of telling believers that God gave you a Sabbath rest and you are to do nothing, worry about nothing, just rest your body, soul and mind, they have to go to a psychologist that tells them their minds, bodies and souls need a *rest*.  A psychologist tells people to "rest" once a week.  They are teaching what the church should be teaching.

The same goes for meditation.  Just bringing up the word in some church circles causes a sharp intake of breath and fear grips some faces.

I don't get it - the word meditate shows up in the Bible at least more than a few times.

Are we so afraid of "middle eastern thinking" that we immediately throw the proverbial baby out with the bathwater?  Or in this case, the soul out with the mind?

I've been searching for God while in the midst of all my recent angst.  I've walked the journey long enough with God to learn that you don't walk away from Him of all things when you grieve.  Or when you get angry.  Or when you are weary.

You walk to Him, with Him.  You talk it out, angst it out.  It's like a thunder storm that clears and calms the air and makes it sweet to breathe again.

Well meaning people have told me that you are not supposed to question God.  Really?  Because I think I read about Abraham doing something crazy like asking God again and again if he would just please reconsider Sodom and Gomorrah.

So as I was asking God for wisdom to know which way to go a couple of months ago, asking Him for help, for guidance, for light on this journey, I searched in my car for a CD I had misplaced.  One of many things that I have *misplaced* the past several months.  Instead of the CD, I found one with a hand written title called "Sounds of the Eternal".

I put it in.  I listened a bit.  It was scripture reading, some meditations, and then a simple song would go on and on and again on and on.

I kind of liked it, but popped it out.  You can only listen to one-liner songs for so long.

The next trip, I popped it in again.

I listened to the whole thing.  I now have five simple songs memorized that come back to me often.

It occurred to me suddenly on one long trip, that this was what I had been looking for literally for years and years - a Biblical meditation CD.

You just don't find many of those things.  Because maybe, just maybe it's a psychologist just messing with your mind.  Or maybe it is just too closely tied to 'middle east thinking' and we certainly want to steer clear of that heresy with our basic, more holy western thinking that comes from the Greek.  Because we want to think like Greeks instead of Hebrews for heaven's sake.   (that was sarcasm in case you missed it)

We have tried to be so aware, so alert of Satan *sneaking* in somewhere, that we cannot see the help that God put right into our hands and souls when we need the help the most while suffering.

That simple help of turning to Him.  One of the songs says "I will show you hidden things, hidden things you have not known".

It sings that like maybe 83 times.  But it's now embedded in my mind and it comes as words from God time and time again.

Another song says "Let me hear, let me hear what You will speak, when I turn to You in my heart."  I wake up with those words going over and over in my mind, and I pray them.

A few weeks ago on tv, I was flipping through the channels as tv bores me greatly, and landed on an interview with a famous meditationist.  (that's my own word, and I cannot remember the guys name, sorry.)

But he was by no means a Christian.  Because in America you cannot "transcend" and sit in church pews.

But I leaned in with fascination as I listened to what he said.  He talked about being in his twenties, sitting at a cafe talking to a friend, and he became aware that there was a chatter running through his mind all of the time.  Always.  Never ending.

He looked into it.  He found that everyone has this chatter constantly in their brains, and that few, very few know how to quiet it or even know how to recognize it and name it for what it is:  chatter.

Continuing the idea, he said the chatter is the culmination of all that we have heard people around us say in our lives.  Our parents, our siblings, our friends, our co-workers - it all goes into an eternal place in our minds and keeps winding and rewinding and filtering every life experience.

I leaned in further.  I have spent some time disdainfully watching "reality" shows.  I hate them but am so fascinated by the human experience.  Almost always, you get to see the "real" person within any person.  And when they are privately interviewed, it seems that they are giving you their inner-chatter - they are telling you what they think about any given situation and it is always colored by their personhood.

For instance, my mother's favorite phrase was "you should be ashamed of yourself".  And I was for a while, then I rebelled against that for a while longer.  When I started adolescence, my older brother who I thought could not hate me anymore than he already did, started a full on attack each night at the dinner table "you eat like a pig".  "You sound like a pig".  It usually ended with me not finishing a meal for a long time.  And oddly, my parents saw it as me over-reacting, adding insult to the injury.

That rolls through my mind every time I sit down to a dinner table.

I'm sure my kids have things running through their minds that I wrongly set on them in words.

So when meditation guy starts talking about everyone having "the chatter" and where it comes from, I'm already on third base waiting to run home with this idea.

He said oddly enough, our inner-chatter comes a lot of times from what and how we have judged others.  If two girlfriends have talked about another friend wearing something inappropriate, that becomes inner-chatter and the more we judge, the worse the inner-chatter becomes because we are even further closing ourselves in by what we have put forth as 'self-truths' in our gossip.

And we gossip more, to cover up the inner-chatter, but just end up making more inner-chatter.

Which is interesting, because isn't that kind of what Jesus said?

But the most interesting thing he said is that we have to learn how to step back in our minds and observe the chatter, because the chatter isn't *us*.

He said that is why you need to meditate.  To relieve the mind of everything it is thinking, to empty it of all the chatter.

And if we do meditation God's way, it's even better I guess is all I can add to that.

***

So while I am on the "dealing with anger" part of my journey, I am thinking, thinking, praying and meditating.

I am noticing my inner-chatter a lot.  I am standing apart from it in my mind and realizing that it's not me - I am becoming stronger than all the voices that have forever filled my life with words that were not ever from God.

The one song on that CD that has awakened me the past week is "Awake! Awake! Put on your strength, Awake, awake, put on your strength".

I didn't look it up for the longest time, but when I did, I was blown away.

It's Isaiah 52

Awake, awake,
    put on your strength, O Zion**;
put on your beautiful garments,
    O Jerusalem, the holy city;
for there shall no more come into you
    the uncircumcised and the unclean.
Shake yourself from the dust and arise;
    be seated, O Jerusalem;
loose the bonds from your neck,
    O captive daughter of Zion.



Heck, I thought the phrase after "put on your strength" was going to be something about being prepared for battle.  And no.  It says "put on your beautiful garments".  If I would have looked it up and suspected that God was talking to me, I might have noticed the "for there shall no more come into you the uncircumcised and the unclean".

You can read that however you want, but to me, there is nothing more 'unclean' than the cleansing chemo.

I absolutely do not remember how that CD got into my car.  I don't know who gave it to us.  (If you did, please let me know and I will bless you with the telling of what it has done for me in the deep valleys.)

At first, I thought it was a friend of mine who sings - some of the inflections of the words in the song were similar to her east-coast-mennonite pronunciations.  She said it wasn't her.  I was bitterly disappointed.

But the songs and the Scripture fills my mind as I meditate.  After - after, I clear out the chatter.  The chatter of my false thinking.  The chatter of the judgments.  The chatter of the antagonists.  The chatter that just needs to be stilled.  And then God can speak.

And He does.



**We are all familiar with the Biblical word “Zion” (in Hebrew “Tzion”). When we delve further into the original Hebrew we are able see something about this word that just can’t be understood in translation. Did you know that the word “Zion” (Tzion) comes from the verb “leTzaen” which means “to mark something” or “to emphasize something”? Zion, therefore, describes God’s tremendous emphasis, concentration and impact upon any given place within creation.There are thousands of examples like this one that will make your study of the Bible even more meaningful!

Dr. Eli Lizorkin-Eyzenberg from eTeacherBiblical