11 Year Cancerversary

Lonely.

That was the feeling 11 years ago today, sitting by myself in a hospital waiting room, while Liz was in surgery. Denial was my companion as I faced the surgeon's 50/50 odds that Liz had cancer. Our life, bustling with the energy of three kids, seemed too full for cancer to find a foothold.

Today we're not just looking back on that time; we're marking over a decade of Liz's survivorship. A period that stands as a testament not to the shadow of cancer, but to the light of endurance and love that shone through it all.

This week also marks 25 years since we got engaged. I'm struck by the different memories of these anniversaries: one of the worst days of our lives, and one of the very best. All remembered together, every year.

Cancer has shaped our lives, defined our schedules, and infiltrated our thoughts and decisions with a permanence underscored by Liz's ongoing treatments every three weeks to keep the cancer away. My own battle and recovery added layers to our family's story, complicating our dance with this uninvited guest. And so many others haven't been as fortunate we have been.

Yet, this isn't a lament. It's a reflection of our reality, a blend of the weight of our experiences and the strength we've discovered within them. Our then-six-year-old Cohen, struggling to sleep, voiced the uncertainty we all felt 11 years ago, "Does mom still have the bad symptoms in her body?" His innocent inquiry captured the essence of our journey—confronting fear with the fortitude of family.

Our story with cancer is significant and everyday, shadowed yet illuminated by the strength and love we share. Here's to recognizing the depth of our journey, acknowledging the challenges, and embracing the life we've built, every step of the way.

Lonely no more.

11 years of beating cancer. 25 years together. Eternity to go.

Before the first biopsy, 11 years ago

Smothered by my boys

Smothered by her boys

All six of us now

PET Scan Results

After a particularly terrible week, I turned the Covid corner well enough to get a PET scan this morning. It's basically like lying on the tongue of a very large mouth that slurps you in and out while collecting photos of your innards.

Liz and I enjoyed our first outing in far too long to review the results with the oncologist this afternoon.

Drum roll...

MY CANCER IS GONE!

No evidence of active cancer cells, and lymph nodes are all back to normal. Chemo worked.

HOORAY!

I will still have to do 3 weeks of daily radiation on the small leftover scar tissue mass in my chest. Hopefully we can start that in a couple of weeks.

The bad news is that I have pneumonia as a friendly reminder of the horrors of Covid. They gave me strong meds, hopefully I will someday be able to sleep lying down.

Overall...blessed news today. If I had enough energy to smile and lung capacity to laugh, I'd be partying hard right now.

Now will someone create a vaccine to get rid of Liz's stupid cancer for good? #goscience

Of Cancer and Covid

Eli informed us that a new Godzilla vs. Kong movie will be out next week. Big monsters, epic battles to determine which is badder than the other. That's what it feels like here right now.

 

Cancer vs. Covid.

 

Liz and I have both.

 

Not cool.

 

We were so careful for so long. And right when we were waiting to get our second vaccine doses, the Corona monster crashed through our home.

 

Liz and I got our first vaccine doses on 3/8. Cohen had chills, sniffles, and exhaustion a few days prior, but he’s been working hard at school and track, so we thought nothing of it. He got over it the next day and he’s been fine since. I got the same symptoms a few days later, Liz followed soon after, and by the time we realized what was happening, we were into Spring Break last week.

 

Ironically, the TN Dept of Health contact tracers just let us all know that our quarantine periods ended days ago and that we shouldn't be contagious. But now we are learning about the wide variety of oncology office Covid-19 protocols.

 

I won’t be able to reschedule the PET scan until at least 3/30 (assuming we get insurance to agree to pay for it). The radiation therapy assessment appointment got pushed out to 4/1.

 

And the big one: Liz’s treatment is cancelled for today, with a 20-day waiting period before she can get treatment again. So…she’s going to have to skip a full treatment cycle and pick it up again in 3 weeks.

How will all of these delays affect her and me? Who knows.

 

We are powering through. The kids are doing great. And once again, we are so grateful for the generosity and kindness shown by truly giving people.

 

Can 2020 be over yet?

Last Chemo Today

At the end of October while coaching Cohen's last flag football game of the season, I knew that I had cancer. We hadn't publicly announced it yet, and it was difficult to keep my emotions in check. What would happen to me, to the kids, to our family? And heck, how could I hide the ginormous neck I was sporting from the enlarged lymph nodes?

Some have mentioned how it feels like it's gone by quickly. It's felt like an eternity here. Just ask Liz.

Well, after 6 chemo sessions for me (and as Liz completed her 140th chemo!), I spent my last 7-hour day in the cancer center infusion chair today.

I snored.

Sorry not sorry.

So at the end of March I'll get a PET scan to see if any of the cancer is still active, and how much. But based on the last CT scan, the lymph nodes all look normal! There is a tumor mass behind my chest that has dramatically reduced in size (from an apple to a quarter), and it will likely stay there as scar tissue. So we pray that the PET scan will show that everything is inactive and there's no evidence of disease. I might need to have targeted radiation on the mass just to kill it for good. Will know late next month.

In the meantime...thank you to those who didn't disappear.

We have appreciated you checking in and helping care for us and the kids. The packages and gifts for the boys have just been perfect. The show recommendations and subreddit shares bring smiles and gleefully mind-numbing entertaining. The cards and texts matter. Liz's tribe has surrounded her with love and support. I've enjoyed my cousin's posts on my facebook page (every. day.) with a new, pleasant family history photo...who knew we did so much camping and so many Christmas pageants as kids?

And thanks to everyone for the prayers and positive energy. Hope they keep paying off!

Go team.

My feelings, in Richard Simmons Chia form

Last chemo session

Liz's family sign we see each day

Christmas Chemo

Chemo #3 was yesterday. I'm feeling the cumulative effects more now, which means that the medications are working. Fatigue, nausea, anemia...not exactly the Christmas prep I had planned. And weren't we supposed to be in Hawaii right now?!

I'll get the 4th treatment in 3 weeks, after which they'll do scans to determine if it's all working (and how well). Every once in a while someone has a full response to the first 4 treatments and they stop then, but it's likely that I'll have to finish all 6 to then find out how well it all worked.

Liz has been Santa's greatest helper all week. She baked 3 days with the boys, did puzzles, played games, kept our evening traditions alive with books and scripture and song. Love that lady.

Since I enjoyed a weird face-down four-hour nap last night and woke up early today, I decided to write my own Christmas songs. Sing along with me!

We three scars on Aaron's neck and chest are

The surgeon goofed and cut a nerve in thar

One scar was a flop, the other two did their job

Now he can't feel his neck skin very far.

Oh, ohhhhhh...

Beard of wonder, black and white,

Now so bald and shiny bright.

Not yet returning, still receding,

Hoping you'll one day cover the scars alright.

(Somehow that one turned into a Pirate shanty in my head. Like most songs. Let's try another.)

You better watch out, you better open your eye,

You better not pout, I'm tellin' you why...

Giant bald dad is coming to town.

(No, that's not it...that whole "sees you when you're sleeping part" creeks me out. One more try.)

Shiny head, shiny head, cancer knows the way

To create an appealing toy for tots

Who rub my head as they walk away...hey!

OK, forget it. But feel free to drop your own Cancer Carol in the comments. The cheesier the better.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you and yours. May Christ's admonition to love God and love our neighbor drive us to ever-increasing kindness and care for one another, especially given our differences.

The One About His Hair

All that doctor talk about losing my hair in the first two weeks of chemo? Fake news!

But, 11/27 was day 15, and 2020 thinks stuff like this is hilarious. My head itched in the morning, and as I grabbed some hair, it slid out of my head into my hand. Tried it again in various cranial places. Same story.

I showered, used a ridiculous amount of hairspray, then told the family what was up. I asked the boys if they wanted to help cut my hair.

Eli (8): Nah, it's fine, it's fine. But when you're done, can I put whip cream on top and pretend you're a pie?

Cohen (13): I'm in! I'll be your barber.

Jensen (10): Eww. Blech.

Looks like my barber knocked it out of the park. Eli keeps rubbing my head. And Jensen won't look at me yet...change can be hard for that one.

Did you know that it hurts to lose your hair to chemo? I had no idea. Liz vaguely remembers the pain, but she had so much pain from that first round of chemo way back when that it didn't register as very important at the time.

So I can't sleep tonight. When I lie on the pillow, the very short hairs get stuck, each one screaming as it loses its grip on my scalp. Looks like I'll be using the shaving cream and razor next.

At least it'll look like whip cream on top. You're welcome, Eli.

Broccoli For Breakfast

It's day 11 after Chemo 1, and I've learned that sometimes you just eat what sounds good. Tuna, ginger ale, crackers...even broccoli for breakfast.

Thanks to so many who sent encouragement, texts, meals, and generous gifts (including this awesome shirt from a long-time work friend and amazing person). We are so grateful for you all.

This past week was tough for our home. Liz had her regular chemo treatment, which brings her extreme exhaustion and bone aches for 2 days afterwards. Unsurprisingly, she powered through and kept things as normal for our boys as possible this week. But man, this stinks.

My fatigue has been surprising. I've nodded off mid-sentence and woken up 3 hours later. The bone aches, metal taste, tingly tongue, and bouts of nausea were expected. It hasn't been fun, but I assumed that it would be much worse.

The good news on Thursday was that my blood work shows normal white blood cell counts. If those drop then I can be at high risk of infection (and it could still happen this week, or next cycle, who knows). But for now, it's something to be grateful for.

Aaron Chemo 1 Is Done

9.5 hours. 8am-5:30pm. 17 medications since last night, including one fruit-punch-colored injection that they lovingly called "The Red Devil."

But it all went as well as it could have gone. No immediate bad reactions to the drugs. All according to plan. And the plan is to hit this whole cancer thing...hard.

Liz wasn't allowed to come inside due to Covid restrictions. It took 45 minutes of pilates-like fun to get my new port to work right, and then I had a candor-filled discussion with the PA about drug options and insurance coverage. We parted ways as friends.

As I walked back to the treatment room, the oncologist saw me down the hall, then immediately glided toward me, wagging his finger in the air as he came closer. He patted me on the shoulder and talk-yelled, "Today is the first day of the end of this cancer. Let's do this!"

I appreciate the sincere encouragement.

Echocardiogram tomorrow on the heart, just to set a baseline to check against in the future. Then blood work and doctor visit next week to check labs and WBCs (white blood cell count). I'll probably feel pretty terrible between treatment days 3-15 (Happy Thanksgiving!), but we'll see what happens.

Hair loss will be almost certain before Chemo 2.

We have friends who went through a couple of terrible Lymphoma treatment cycles. He's miraculously doing well, and we bought neon green Superman logo t-shirts a few years ago to show our support for his treatment journey.

Look what Liz surprised me with this morning.

We fight on!

     

Aaron's Treatment Plan

The surgical biopsy was Thursday, 11/5. I learned that Lyrica + anesthesia = me singing sweet versions of Kryptonite and You Raise Me Up on the operating table. I told a hilarious joke too, or at least that's what they said: two atoms walked down the road...something something lost an electron...are you sure...I'm positive...

I don't remember any of it. But it's good to be popular in the OR.

The surgeon tried to excise one lymph node on my left upper chest, but he realized it was a muscle mass (HULK SMASH!). So he went in the right side of my neck instead to grab what he needed. Surgery took 1.5 hours, and I've had some unfortunate nerve issues as side effects, but what can you do.

After a few days of waiting and healing, we finally got the biopsy results.

I have Diffuse Large B-Cell Lymphoma (DLBCL), which is a kind of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma (NHL). It hurts to hear it, but it is the same kind that the doctor thought it was initially, so there were no surprises. It's Stage IIA, which means it's in a couple of places (mainly my neck and behind my sternum), but it hasn't spread to other areas of the body. I've also had no symptoms, so the doctor is optimistic at a great response to treatment.

Here's this week's plan:

• Tue 11/10 - "Teaching" - talk through treatment, medications, side effects, therapies, etc. with the nurses.
• Wed 11/11 - Early morning outpatient surgery to place a port (under the skin, tapped into the vein so chemo flows freely...Liz and I will be port buddies!). I'll prepare some new tunes for the OR.
• Thu 11/12 - Chemotherapy starts at 8am. Then one treatment day, every 3 weeks, for 6 treatments.
• Fri 11/13 - Echocardiogram of the heart to get a good baseline for future comparison.

I'll likely feel sick a few days after each treatment, then 10-14 days after each treatment my white blood cell counts will drop, so we must avoid infections. (Please wear a mask for your cancer friends!) That's also when I might start losing my hair. Plus...Liz has her regularly scheduled chemo treatment on Tue 11/17 (maintenance infusions, forever...because they work!). That takes her out for 2-3 days. 

Ever plan chemo for two parents at once? Not cool.

This will be quite a ride.

The treatment plan will take us through mid-March: through Thanksgiving, my birthday, Christmas, New Year's, our oldest son's birthday, almost up to Liz's and our middle child's birthdays...

2020 is the gift that keeps on giving.

We're getting ready the best we can. But for today: we will play hooky from school, setup a theater in the living room, watch a movie and have popcorn in the middle of the day, go on a hike, jump on the trampoline, have an Xbox party, and throw the football around. The harsh realities start tomorrow.

Today, we enjoy life.

Message From Liz:

First and foremost, thank you thank you for all of your thoughts, prayers and well wishes for Aaron and our family. In a previous post from years ago, we referred to one of my cancer hiccups as a "life-altering speed bump." Well, if that was a speed bump, then this is a randomly placed curve in the road with a sharp decline and stop sign at the bottom. I constantly feel like I am a waiter balancing the plates of cancer, cancer, cooking, cleaning, laundry, homeschool, kid appointments/activities, and overall life happiness. Whew! Somehow, we all make it to the end of the meal each day to start again the next day. 

 

Many of you near and far have asked what you can do to help us balance the plates during this time. Our doctors have warned us to be extremely careful because Covid and cancer don't mix well, so traditional meal trains or dinners being dropped off isn't going to be an option at this time. With all that being said, for those that would like to help gift cards to Instacart, Target, Amazon, Chick-fil-A, Sonic, Chipotle, Costco, Grubhub, Whole Foods, Trader Joes, and house cleaners would be best for groceries, restaurants, and other household needs.

For those asking what they can do for our kiddos: special gift cards to Target, Amazon, Chick-fil-A, and Sonic just for them would be a treat. Or care packages and letters tailored to them would be amazing. Please feel free to message me on Facebook or Instagram for specific needs or ideas. 

Again, we are so grateful for all of you that have expressed your concern for us. We feel your love and are thankful to have you in our lives. 

  

The Best Year Yet

The anesthesiologist commanded me to drink a non-red Gatorade by 4am. Pre-surgery anti nausea recovery something something. So naturally I only slept from midnight to 2am.

Now sleep is again hard to come by after my lemon-lime gluttony. Maybe because my face feels naked after shaving off Coronabeard in preparation for today's biopsical event. So I'm listening to the minutes tick by until it is time to leave.

Liz will drop me off at the hospital at 5:30am to prep for the 7:30am surgical biopsy. She can't stay with me...our state now has its highest numbers of COVID hospitalizations yet, and no visitors are allowed into the surgery waiting area as a precaution to prevent further spread.

Good health policy. Bad social reality.

This week we found out through CT and PET scans that the original assumptions are correct: lymphoma, likely stage 2A, it hasn't extended to other parts of the body below the diaphragm, and it hasn't progressed into any other body systems. No surprises, fortunately. In order to clarify the specific cancer type he treatment plan, the surgeon (who doesn't have nearly as cool of a name as Liz's biopsy surgeon did) will remove one lymph node, most likely from my neck. It's the easiest one to get to, and actually the one that I first noticed was an issue. I very much like the idea of getting rid of that trouble maker. The surgery will be quick, and once I come out of recovery after a few hours, they'll call Liz to pick me up at the front door.

We should know the pathology results early next week, then determine what the plans are for starting chemo, which will likely begin quickly. We'll keep you posted.

Thanks to everyone for your heartfelt comments, texts, calls, and emails. It means a lot to us to know that you're cheering us on.

On Election Day, our 8-year-old Eli blurted out: "I really think that 2020 is going to be the best year yet." He followed it up with, "And I can't wait until 2021!"

That's the kind of optimism I needed.

This has not been a cool year, for so many people and for so many reasons. It is super uncool what's happening right now to me, to us.

But I guess that it's time to make 2020 the best year yet!

We Fight On

Cancer has once again reared its Halloweenish head. But in a cruel twist of fate befitting the dumpster fire that is 2020, this time it's for me, Aaron.

I have lymphoma.

Total blindside: I actually feel fine.

The doctor thinks that it is a type of Large B-Cell Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. We caught it early, it's low stage (probably stage 2A), and it's most likely an aggressive type of cancer that responds very well to chemotherapy. So the prognosis is actually positive, all things considered.

More tests coming, and we will know the details and treatment plan within the next week or so.

The irony isn't lost on me, that on Tuesday 10/27 we went to one cancer center for Liz's 135th chemotherapy infusion (the kind she has every 3 weeks...forever), then we hurried to a different cancer center to meet with "my" oncologist for the first time. On the same day.

My oncologist. Surreal.

To answer some questions you haven't yet asked:

• Yes, we're sure.
• No, it's not genetic. Sometimes bad stuff just happens. And it's terrible. Like now.
• Yes, we told the kids, and this type of chaos is unfortunately not new to them. Their resiliency is shining through already.
• Yes, it is curable, and that's even more ironic. Liz will always have to think about treatments, scans, bloodwork, the next doctor's visit, and the next results. I might be able to ring the bell and be "done" with treatment. Doesn't seem fair.
• Yes, we are ok financially for now. We've thankfully had a good year, and the work continues. Liz and I own a recruiting firm (murdochmason.com), and I also started a new business with a trusted partner (vitalizetalent.com). We will be ok.
• No, we don't need anything right now. Thank you! Please be patient with us as we come up with a list of what will be helpful as treatments progress.

Special requests:

• Don't let the fear of not knowing what to say keep you away. Your love and concern will give us strength.
• If you don't know what to say or do, here are some ideas in an old blog post: How Not to Say the Wrong Thing.
• Please pray for us, and especially pray for our boys. If prayer isn't your thing, talk with someone who needs a human conversation or do an act of kindness for someone.

Are you watching the NBC show This Is Us? One scene struck us during the season opener while we  pretended like we weren't crying.

Beth explained to her husband, Randall, what she learned early in life. "It's the tragedies that define our lives. They are the fenceposts on which the rest of our lives hang. I always think about that, like, our lives are just hanging there, between these really sad fenceposts. Baby, you were born out of tragedy. Multiple tragedies. All that loss, all that sadness...and look what you hung on your fenceposts. Look what you have right in front of you, right here in this room. I mean, look what you did with all of that. Do you see it?"

Randall looked at their children and thoughtfully replied, "I see it." Beth finished with this:

"This pain is not forever. This moment in time is not forever.
Nothing is forever...except us. We fight on."

Liz and I have planted plenty of sad fenceposts. But as we look at our boys and our blessings, we realize that we have hung many happy and amazing things between the standards of sadness. We have purpose and power to fight this, and so we will.

We fight on.

Happy Anniversary

Five years ago today Liz was diagnosed with advanced stage breast cancer, with a single-digit percentage chance of making it to see 2018. And yet...she is here, she is strong, the continued treatments keep working, and our family couldn't be more grateful. It doesn't seem weird to us to celebrate one of the worst days of our lives, since every year of her journey through cancer is a blessing and miracle for us all.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to my beautiful bride! Keep punching cancer in the face.

Scanorama

Since last time I posted...we moved to Nashville. Awesome for all of the reasons, and our boys are doing great in their new environment. It is nice to hear an occasional "yes sir!" when I ask them to do something, but those moments don't happen often enough. We loved our summer with reunions and activities in Utah and Idaho, trip to Yellowstone, horrible attempts to reignite my fishing prowess, two Braves games, an extended beach trip to Tybee Island, and lots of quality family time. Business is good, kids are great, and school is off to a smashing start. Pics at bottom of this post. Now let the blogging commence.

Annual scans for long-term cancer survivors can invoke the highest levels of stress and worry, especially when people feel healthy. The "what if" questions always linger in the back of their minds, but when it's scan time, sanity flies out the window while they wait for results, for confirmation, for answers.

Liz has been rocking the every-three-week treatments and still feels fantastic, even with the occasional bouts of exhaustion (although, that could be child or husband related). We decided to name the past week SCANORAMA! I thought it would provide whimsy and magic to an otherwise stressful time. Didn't work. But I'm now committed to the term, so SCANORAMA! it is. Over the past week Liz scheduled:

• Echocardiogram for her heart
• CT scan of chest, abdomen, pelvis
• Bone scan from head to toe
• Mammogram
• Ultrasound

She also has been building her strength and working out more, so she treated herself during SCANORAMA! to an extra X-ray on her foot when she messed up a tendon last week. Side note: she will kick you in the face with her sweet Stormtrooper boot. 1 scan down, 5 more to find out about.

So five scans left and then...we waited. The oncologist said she wouldn't call in advance, which wouldn't mean it was good, or bad, or anything -- it's just not her process. Vast difference from good ol' Dr. Hantel in Chicagoland who called the evening after each scan was completed. One of the radiologists let it slip that the mammogram looked good so they didn't need to do an ultrasound, but only after dramatically running out of the room to chat with her colleague about the results (such things cause a bit of anxiety in cancer patients). 3 down, 3 to go.

It's one thing to feel well, but it's a whole other thing to know that someone knows whether or not you are well. We arrived this morning at the cancer center for the doctor visit prior to Liz's scheduled treatments. Liz and I both acted like we weren't nervous. We're not great pretenders, given our stress levels and lack of sleep over the past few nights.

The doctor came in the room. After some friendly and awkward chit chat (while we screamed in our heads "JUST SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT!!!"), we reviewed the remaining scan results:

• Echocardiogram was perfect
• CT scan was as good as anyone would hope for
• Bone scan was superb

To quote the oncologist: "You are doing spectacularly well. Really wonderful results. You're a remarkable patient."

Whew. So on we go.

The paradox in knowing how well Liz's doing is also knowing that there are so many others who aren't doing well. The doc said that although she has seen many long-term HER2+ advanced stage cancer patients, Liz is by far doing better than any of her other patients. Ever. We cheer for Liz's success! But we cheer quietly as we sit here, waiting for the medications to pump into her chest port, surrounded by others who are traveling through their own cancer journeys.

We are blessed, and grateful. Now I really want to go eat some celebratory carbs.

            

Just a life altering speed bump

We got a voicemail: "Hey guys, Dr. Hantel here. I got the pathology report back and it's all just pre-cancerous stuff, just DCIS, so that's all good news! No sign of the invasive breast cancer any place so all the results are what we were hoping for. I'm actually going to present her case at the breast conference."

Pro: Liz kicked cancer's neck and karate chopped its face. AGAIN! The pathology results really are good news.

Con: As a well-intended doctor mentioned, this is "just a speed bump" in her treatment plan to keep cancer at bay.

Yeah, it's a speed bump, but it's a life-altering one.

We had Liz's first follow up appointment with the plastic surgeon 2 days ago. You'll be pleased to know that it was ironically "Breast Reconstruction Awareness Day."

Consider us well aware.

Celebrate BRA Day!

Dr. Pavone removed one of her two drains (if you don't know what I'm talking about, either Google it, or don't — just know that they're helpful but way uncool). Everything looks good, he was pleased with the surgery. Ouch.

Yesterday she visited Joe Dr. Montana for his post op visit. He giddily explained that the cancer was confirmed as DCIS, which is a non-invasive, localized breast cancer. That's the kind that either requires a lumpectomy with radiation, or a mastectomy to treat. So we're validated in this major surgery decision, although it doesn't make Liz feel much better. He also said that the breast tissue was confirmed to include a lot of pre-cancerous cells, and the tests show that they got everything. Rousing success. No wonder he's so happy. We're still working on the happy part.

Now we're at Liz's "normal" infusion treatments at the local cancer center. Dr. Hantel said that the entire tumor board/conference talked about Liz's case again. Further confirmation that no one has seen a case like this, where a primary cancer is fully under control and a different one appears and can be fully treated through surgery. He also said that the lymph node that was removed had no invasive cancer present, but that it had some scar tissue, which means that it had been one of the culprits for helping to spread her original cancer throughout the body. That HER2+ cancer is nowhere to be found now, which is the reason why we continue these outings every three weeks.

So yeah, it's a speed bump in the treatment, and this was the right thing to do. The recovery from the surgery has been (and still is) tough, and the reconstruction process over the next couple of months already sounds terrible. How do we do it? We figure out one day at a time. We're buoyed by the prayers and thoughts of others near and far, from the kindest next door neighbor to old friends half a world away. We rely on friends and family to help keep the kids alive and happy.

Grandma's magical distraction skills

And we lean on our understanding of God's eternal plan, grateful for our family and for the blessings we have. Even though #cancersucks.

BATTLE ON!

(I asked Liz if there was anything else she would add. She said "ouch.")

Let's Have Another Round Tonight

"Keep loving. Keep trying. Keep trusting. Keep believing. Keep growing. Heaven is cheering you on today, tomorrow, and forever."

- Jeffrey R. Holland

That beautiful lady in the picture below listened to her "Hamilton" soundtrack yesterday while prepping for surgery. Fitting song in the photo: "Stay Alive."

The mastectomy and reconstruction surgeries went just as expected, or so said the doctors. Last night was rough though: the pain and the pain meds increased her nausea, which increased the pain, and so on. Nurses weren't particularly helpful overnight. Then this morning the doctors took charge with new medicines and finally started getting the pain and nausea under control. She's finally sleeping now.

I'm keeping busy during the napping moments by managing the business and helping students in the online classes I'm teaching. Both are pleasant distractions from the hospital drama.

Unfortunately, we'll be here one more night. But we're eager to get back home and see Mama's Warriors again soon. So glad to have Grandma with them. And I'm so glad to have found a new series for Netflix binge-watching in the hospital room.

Now we get real about recovery. Here's what I posted on Facebook yesterday at 2:52 pm:

"Liz's surgery is done after about 2.5 hours with the doctors. Things went well, no surprises, and she responded well to the anesthesia. I'm going to go see her when she gets back to holding and starts waking up. We won't have any pathology reports for at least a week, and we have the first post-op appointments beginning mid-week next week. Then regular treatment for the first cancer (the one whose can she already kicked) on Thursday of next week. And weekly appointments for a couple of months until the second reconstruction surgery can get scheduled. Woah. Thank you for your prayers, comments, and help with the kids. Note that Liz won't be able to drive for a few weeks, and she won't be able to lift her right arm (she's right-handed!) for a while as she recovers, so be patient with her texting and messages for now. But don't stop talking to her and don't hold back in an effort to protect her. Be present for and with her. And pray that pathology comes back clean so there won't be any new chemo or radiation treatments, just focusing on surgery recovery and continuing to punch the original cancer in the face. Go Team Liz. BATTLE ON."

Game Changer

The mastectomy and reconstruction surgery are scheduled for high noon tomorrow. It kind of feels like an old west shootout, watching the clock and waiting for the moment. We'll be at the hospital early in the morning and then she should be back home the following day after an overnight stay. After the cancer has once again been obliterated.

In the meantime: one hour left to eat and drink what she wants before the midnight cutoff! It's chow time.

We took a fulfilling road trip with the boys from Wednesday through Sunday. No Florida and Legoland (thanks for nothing, Hurricane Matthew). But we enjoyed an apple orchard, the Louisville Slugger factory, the U.S. Space and Rocket Center (SPACE CAMP!), and good ol' Nashville.

The day after we got home we told the boys that their mom is going to have surgery. Liz was inspired with how to share the news so that they would understand. She talked about how her current treatments are maintenance to keep the cancer away. And now this surgery is necessary to keep the cancer away as well. We didn't tell them the specifics of the surgery, or even what it's called. We're keeping it simple: mom will have surgery to keep the cancer away, the hospital is where Eli was born (so they'll do a good job!), the boys will have food to eat and rides to/from school, and mom will be home in a couple of days.

It's not fair. It's different than before. It's a game changer: everything will be or seem different after tomorrow. Liz hopes that every morning the lump will disappear and this nightmare will end. No luck yet, but we have one more night to go before the surgery. Here's hoping!

I'm reminded of a scripture story about people who were persecuted and who had terrible burdens placed on them. Their pleas to god didn't remove the struggles and pain. But "the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease." The people were strengthened with increased capacity to ease their burdens. I pray that we gain that same enabling power -- heaven knows we can use it.

BATTLE ON.