Create in Me…

Catholics are notorious for their use of prayer books and devotionals. Protestants grab Bibles and pray extemporaneously — sometimes long after anyone else cares to listen — but Catholics use the printed word to help them navigate that tricky life journey called faith. I confess, I am as Catholic as the next person when it comes to prayer. The comfort of words I have prayed dozens of times acts as a door, opening my heart to hear God’s voice.

This week, I am finding it ironic that one of my favorite prayers, from a book called HEARTS ON FIRE: PRAYING WITH THE JESUITS (published by Loyola Press), includes the lines, “Lord, you must give us new hearts, tender hearts, sensitive hearts, to replace hearts that are made of marble and bronze. You must give us your own heart, Jesus.” I could use a new heart; I was diagnosed earlier this week with mitral valve prolapse. It’s not life-threatening, just uncomfortable. I tire easily and experience some chest discomfort — not really pain, but a constant reminder that all is not quite well.

I’ve done a little research since receiving the diagnosis, and understand why my cardiologist shook his head when talking with me about how to manage this. Normally, the medications prescribed would be used to address other symptoms or conditions, and the secondary benefit would be addressing my condition. I don’t have the other conditions — not really. I don’t have high blood pressure, high normal but not clearly high. I don’t have high cholesterol levels, high normal but not clearly high. So, medication for high blood pressure, which would strengthen my heartbeat, could make me dizzy, light-headed and cause me to pass out. Similarly, medication for high cholesterol would improve artery functioning, so my heart wouldn’t have to work as hard, but could cause kidney issues. My doctor’s solution was to give me very small doses and to order more tests in a month.

Lucky me. I confess I’ve been a little proud of the good health genes have given me. While my contemporaries have been supporting the pharmaceutical industry and getting parts replaced, I’ve been strolling through life, taking a few preventative measures here and there, but essentially enjoying good health. Now, I have joined their ranks.

The greatest challenges I face are these:

• My personal values: I don’t care to support the pharmaceutical industry. I don’t mind paying taxes because, apart from the exorbitant amount of money the American taxpayer is paying to keep DT and his extensive family secure while they continue to enjoy the luxury to which they feel entitled, and the disproportionate amount of the federal budget gobbled up by the DOD, tax money does great good in our nation. I like buying lottery tickets because education is underfunded and I feel like my token gesture says, “I care.” (I wonder if anyone has considered funding the DOD with lottery sales, and putting taxpayer money to better use — for education, healthcare, the arts and human services.) But spending money on medication makes me grind my teeth.
• My bad habits: Living alone, I have gotten sloppy, especially when it comes to eating. When I get home after a 12-hour day (work, commute, errands on the way home), I don’t feel like cooking. I’ll grab a bowl of cereal, or some cheese and crackers, and consider that adequate. Unless I grab lunch with someone, I don’t do any better at lunch — fruit, yogurt and a peanut butter sandwich. Yep, every day, and I don’t exercise.

I can’t do much about the medication until I make some lifestyle changes. I’ve been inspired by the possibility of doing this by a young friend: Robyn Anderson. She has embarked on a journey to reshape herself following the birth of her son. Every day, she posts a picture on Facebook with a note about what exercise she has completed. I have neither her engaging smile nor the stamina for her rigorous workouts, so I don’t see myself doing that. However, I can make other changes. Thus far I have negotiated with my supervisor time for a 30-minute walk in the morning while it is still cool, and have started noting food, exercise, medication and anything else I deem important in a little black book. Step two will be research on my condition and on nutrition. I’m hoping that by the time daily walks are a habit, I will have determined step three.

I do know one thing as I embark on this journey:  it will also be a true journey of the heart. We can’t make changes to one area of our life without ripples touching other areas, and I know myself well enough to know I will reflect on all of them! Wish me luck.

The Glass Staff of Belonging

I dreamed last night that I was in a sprawling lodge. Others are there with me, but I don’t have a sense of who they are. I felt imprisoned, but in the dream, I didn’t experience any restraints. And then I — as well as a number of others — were given what was called ‘a glass rose,’ but was actually a glass staff that was shoulder high and opened at the top into a calla lily. I received the staff with wonder, not knowing why I had been chosen or what it signified, knowing only that I now chose to be in this place. While others set their staffs aside, put them in tall vases, I held onto mine, liked the way it warmed in my hand.

What gift, I asked myself, when I journaled about this dream, could transform a prison into a home freely chosen? What could change my perceptions that much? What did the glass staff even signify?

Dream interpretation always starts with questions for me. Write down the dream. Summarize impressions and then ask questions, allowing the answers to emerge spontaneously from that inner well of wisdom that can rarely be accessed directly and then more by intuition than logic. Surprisingly, just asking questions and remaining open often works, though more often over a period of time than immediately.

So it was with this dream. The title came first and confused me, but I accepted it as part of the dream’s truth. And then, weeks later, the answer came. What can alter a person’s perceptions so much that without a change in circumstances, an experience is transformed from prison into place of belonging? Insight and understanding.

A simple answer, but not a flippant one. Cancer has been my prison for nearly two years. I went into the hospital on the morning of Dec. 12, 2019, for a minimally invasive preventative procedure and left four days later with a cancer diagnosis. I went through chemotherapy alone because COVID-19 hit the state shortly after my first treatment and have been part of a clinical study since that time.

While I have prayed frequently for the grace to make this journey with dignity, I have resented the limitations it has placed on me. I have hated the side effects of both the chemo and the trial drug. Most recently, my immune system started to attack my body as a result of the trial drug. I’ve been on steroids to weaken my immune system to address that problem, but steroids bring their own side effects.

Earlier this year, I realized how incredibly naive I was when I started this journey. I knew chemo would be rough, but I thought my life would get back to normal at some point. I now know that is not the case. The chemo knocked back the cancer, but did not cure it. The immunotherapy is holding it at bay, though minuscule lesions that do not concern my oncologist have popped up in both my lungs and liver. Because uterine cancer metastasizes to the lungs and liver, I view them as a harbinger of what is to come.

The most difficult burden to bear has been the burden of lost dreams. I have always known I would probably work long after my contemporaries. As a single woman whose gifts led me into a profession that pays more than retail, but less than teaching, manufacturing or government jobs — and offers fewer benefits — I knew I would not be positioned to retire at 62 or 65. But, since I like talking to people and writing about it, I didn’t mind continuing to work as a reporter.

I always imagined, though, that eventually I would retire and then I was going to paint. I didn’t think it likely I would be able to rebuild my art career, or “catch up” with fellow artists who were able to establish their professional reputations during the long years when depression had placed a solid barrier between me and my ability to create art. But, I fully expected to polish my skills enough to exhibit work again, primarily because I had started painting periodically and liked what was emerging.

And then cancer arrived and I did not have the physical stamina to take my supplies out to do plein air painting. I did not have the energy to either sit or stand at the easel for hours, working to bring forth the kinds of vibrant images which are my signature.

Living with that awareness broke my heart. A writer writes; an artist creates. Being an artist has been part of my self-identity for decades, even during the dry years when I didn’t pick up a brush. I would look at the work which lines my walls like a gallery and know the truth of my identity. Who was I without that dream?

Fortunately, I have a good set of pastels and a portable camping chair. One day, well over a year ago, when the chemo side effects were manageable, I needed to get outdoors, to feel spring on my face. On impulse, I picked up the backpack in which I store my pastel supplies and headed out to Lake Herman State Park. I sat near the entrance and over the next couple hours did a small landscape. Something inside relaxed as I grew to understand that cancer had not taken my art from me.

In subsequent months, I did others, and framed the pieces so I could hang them. They affirmed to me my identity. However, due to their size — 11 inches by 14 inches framed — I made no effort to exhibit them. I didn’t think anyone would be interested.

Earlier this year, I started painting little landscapes — no larger than six inches by six inches. I can do these in the studio in a couple hours. While small, they are marvelously compete, capturing entire landscapes with an economy of strokes. As I work on these, I am thinking big. I want to put together an exhibit called “Cancer: Living in a Small World,” where I pair some of my earlier work with my current work. I want to do activities with cancer survivors at art centers which choose to show the exhibit. I want to help others battling cancer realize that while their worlds may have gotten smaller, they can find ways to live well in those small worlds.

I think I understand now what the dream was nudging me toward. I did not choose cancer and I have experienced it as a prison. But, in finding in it a way to minister to others, I can experience it as a gift and can live with it in peace. I can hold the glass staff of belonging, not knowing why I was chosen, but knowing I can make a difference in this place.

Pink Dawn

Create in me a clean heart, O God, and put a new and right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from thy presence, and take not thy Holy Spirit from me,

Restore to me the joy of thy salvation, and uphold me with a willing spirit. (Ps. 51:10-12)

This morning, I watched as pink dawn spread across the sky. A new day. Darkness lifting yet again, allowing light to flood over the land. I felt the throbbing life of it, and was glad.

Time stopped for me a few weeks ago. I went in for a routine physical, and was swept into a whirlwind of tests culminating in a biopsy that did not indicate cancer. I agreed to a minimally invasive procedure anyhow, because my doctor recommended it.

I went under expecting a 45-minute, one-day procedure, and came out hours later to see my daughter crying. She’s the stoic one, the brave heart who sees adversity as a challenge to be overcome. She gave me the news — they found cancer.

Cancer is a death sentence less often these days than it once was, but I don’t think you can hear the word without knowing that possibility exists. Often, you also discover you have to pay a price for life — literally and figuratively. Medical treatment is expensive and it takes a toll physically and emotionally.

Hearing the word is a bit like being sucker-punched — at least, that’s how I experienced it. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Or think about what it meant. My world got very small — bodily needs, sleep, the way my body smelled (was that normal?). I could not think beyond this moment to a day when I would be healed and life would resume its sweet routines.

As far as I knew at that point, that day would come. I had no reason to think otherwise. Stage 1A. No treatment beyond surgery would be necessary. The incision needed to heal, but I could resume normal activities as soon as I felt up to it. Still, I could not pray, and that is an activity which normally forms the cornerstone of my day.

I get up in the morning. I start coffee, make my bed, and then take a cup of coffee to my prayer desk where I spend a half hour in prayer. The diagnosis had somehow created a barrier between me and that routine, a barrier I didn’t even understand.

As I sat in the darkness, the situation kept snowballing. The incision didn’t heal properly. The pathology report showed Stage II cancer. The oncologist wanted a CT scan to see if the cancer had spread before giving me options.

As the season of Advent drew us closer to Christmas, to Emmanuel, to God with us, I waited, but not with anticipation, with dread. Finally, a little voice, a whisper I have come to trust, managed to pierce the stupor. Tell me about it; what do you fear?

I pulled out my journal and began to write. What if this is my last Christmas? What if I never see my grandgirls again? What if they forget me? On and on the list went. What if I don’t get to see the Coteau bloom again or hang out with Breck when he does chores? What if? What if? What if?

Blessing after blessing, grace after grace. I will not say I have not appreciated these gifts, but I can say I did not know how much my heart has been shaped by all that God has given me to love. As I wrote, I realized I could not pray because I was afraid God was asking me to let go, to say good-bye.

For several years, God has been working with me, helping me to learn that obedience means embracing reality, trusting Him to reveal himself and His task for me in each day. I’ve learned to love in new ways, to walk through open doors and turn away from closed doors without regret. I’ve learned that opportunities come in strange packages, and I’ve learned to live more days — not all, but more — in his peace.

I am not ready to say good-bye. Of course, as soon as I began to write, I could almost visualize him sitting with me with his own cup of coffee, as he has so many other mornings. He said with a quirky grin, Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you? What happened to taking things one day at a time?

He was right, as usual. Stage II is not a death sentence. Uterine cancer, which I presume I have, has an 82% survival rate. This is just another one of those challenges that comes with life. And while God may let me wallow a bit in darkness from time to time, he’ll keep nudging me toward light and life and the ability to see all the love he has put into my heart, including the love which reflects a right spirit.

That’s what he does, helps us see the dawn.

Breathing Through The Tears

This I learned today — no matter how prepared you think you are, you really aren’t prepared for a cancer diagnosis. The tears will come — totally unbidden. And then, they will return.

I keep taking deep slow breaths, and try to catch up with my girls as they make plans. Who will come with me when I have a PET scan? How will they coordinate providing support when I start chemo?

But, I am not there yet. I am still taking deep slow breaths, battling tears, and speaking little truths as they come to me.

Take care of the girls. When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, my brothers and I were lost. Dad was with Mom. Gramma, Mom’s mother, came to stay with us for a week or so, but did more harm than good and was soon banished, leaving me and my brothers to fend for ourselves. Then, Mom died and Dad withdrew from the family altogether, except to live in the same house, and shove us out one-by-one as we graduated from high school.

That wound significantly shaped me. I looked for love in all the wrong places until the second of two abusive husbands not only left bruises on my body, but also abandoned me with two small children and no money. I knew I needed to change or I would destroy my daughters’ lives, so I worked with a gifted therapist until I could make better decisions.

After working so hard to make sure my girls would be OK, it would break my heart if this battle sapped so many resources from the family — emotional or financial — that my granddaughters’ needs were not met. I need them to be OK. I am an old lady, months away from Medicare. They are young and vibrant with dreams and energy. I couldn’t bear to have them hobbled in any way.

Sometimes, I am going to cry; please, let me. Tears don’t mean I have lost hope. Rather, right now I have a lot in common with a toddler. Emotions are close to the surface, and I can’t even articulate how I feel sometimes.

• Habitual tasks are now incredibly difficult. I have to plan how to put on socks because, since surgery, I can’t reach my feet.
• The entire routine of my life has been disrupted. I no longer get up, pray, go to work and help build the community in which I live. I no longer do dishes at lunchtime and laundry in the evening; I can’t even do my own laundry. I need wound care and shots and medication; I sit in doctors’ offices and have tests that were nothing more than names to me until recently.
• I tire easily, and when I tire, I can’t think straight. I can’t even answer simple questions like, ‘What would you like to eat?’ When the ‘tired’ switch goes on, I want one thing & one thing only — a nap — and then I may sleep for hours.
• My life is spinning out of control at an overwhelming rate. A 45-minute procedure turned into four-hour surgery, during which I apparently lost a lot of blood. I’ve gone from Stage I cancer needing no further treatment to Stage III requiring chemo, radiation, and immunotherapy. It’s a lot to deal with, so please understand I will cry.

Help me get life back to normal in little ways. I need to write to make sense out of this. I need to get my home in order so I can get some work done when I am too tired to go into the office. I need to go to the ranch because sitting in the tractor beside Breck makes me happy.

I know I am not going to make it easy. I’m an intensely private person and I have great respect for the crazy-busy lives that we all live. I will find it very hard to ask for help and harder to accept help. Accepting help from my children has already been difficult, and I raised them. But I know I won’t get through this alone, so please be patient as I come to terms with being one of those in need that God calls us all to help.

Living with Color

Not long ago, I had a dream in which my home was invaded by four young people who wanted all my colored pens. I love color and pick up sets of colored pens whenever one catches my eye. I use them to write in my journal, changing color when I change topics. I use them to make marginal notes in books — when I read a book rather than an e-reader. Occasionally, I sketch with them. More often than not, I don’t need them; I just buy them because — as I said — I love color.

In the dream, I asked to have just one set, begged to have even one set returned, but they simply laughed at me. Without the pens, I didn’t even want to live in the apartment, so I left, telling them they could have it. I went out into the night, which was not just dark, but also black and white like an old photograph. One of the young men wanted to accompany me so that I would have some protection, but I didn’t want his protection if I could not have color.

Less than a week later, I sat with a social worker who specializes in counseling cancer patients and shared the dream with her. Neither one of us had trouble understanding it. I had been referred to her because I was experiencing fatigue so severe it was interfering with my quality of life. I told her I had expected to feel better after chemo. I said I knew chemo would be rough, but expected life to return somewhat to normal after that suffering. Instead, both mind and body felt as though they were shutting down. I couldn’t think clearly; I rarely had energy for more than three or four hours in a day. I was living a half-life devoid of hope or joy.

The expectation that I would feel better was based on stories I had done over the years, interviewing cancer survivors for various awareness campaigns. All were doing well; some gave me the impression they had even gone though chemo without breaking stride. Eleven months after my last chemo treatment, I was barely functioning. I had even begun to pray for a quick end rather than a long battle, and decided the clinical study would be the last treatment I would receive. I didn’t want to live if every day was to be a lonely battle in which I struggled to fulfill responsibilities while feeling guilty for all I couldn’t do.

I was speaking with the counselor because my oncologist had decided six weeks earlier I needed some support services and had referred me to integrative medicine. Most options available through integrative medicine were not appropriate in my case, so I was referred for counseling and for a sleep apnea study. The counselor diagnosed depression and anxiety; the sleep apnea study has not yet been conducted. I made an appointment to see the therapist again, but ended up canceling it.

When blood work was done before my last infusion, an additional test was done. It showed the study drug had affected my thyroid functioning; the TSH score indicated hypothyroidism. That’s not an entirely bad thing. The American Thyroid Association indicates studies with cancer patients have linked longevity with thyroid problems associated with the drug being administered. Granted, the studies looked at another form of cancer; I am, after all in a clinical study to determine whether the drug could have benefits for the kind of cancer I have, so little is known. However, that news was hopeful.

Knowing the symptoms of hypothyroidism helped, too. They include: fatigue, weight gain, hoarseness, muscle weakness, depression, impaired memory — all symptoms I was experiencing. I had been receiving reports from my oncologist that I was doing well, that my condition was stable, but I had been feeling worse and worse. I vacillated between wondering if I was a drama queen making a mountain out of a molehill and wondering if my oncologist was being overly optimistic in his reports to me. With a medical diagnosis which offered an explanation, I knew that neither was true. I was not being a drama queen and my oncologist was not being overly optimistic. Something else entirely was happening.

Medication was prescribed — a teeny, tiny, itty, bitty white tablet which I take first thing in the morning an hour before eating. Within a week, my world was transformed. At first, I was hesitant to embrace the change. Did I feel better simply because my experience had finally been validated and I was no longer doubting myself? However, when I had to write a story one evening, I found I could do so without struggling to recall simple words which have been part of my vocabulary for decades. I could string sentences together and paragraphs made sense. I would have done a happy dance that night if I hadn’t been afraid of terrifying the neighbor who lives below me.

I have no idea how long this journey will last. Nothing has been easy — not the surgery, not the chemo, not the clinical trial — but this experience has reminded me yet again that storms and darkness do pass, that God does come to us and carry us to safety. As I struggled with the fatigue, struggled with the fear that my life was ebbing away, I meditated one morning on John’s version of Jesus walking on water (6:16-21). He had gone into the hills by himself after feeding the multitude and his disciples had climbed into a boat to return to Capernaum. Night came and a strong wind had stirred up the water. They were battling the waves, rowing hard to make the crossing, when they saw him walking on water and were terrified.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It is I” (6:20). He then climbed in the boat and they arrived safely at their destination. They had traveled for miles alone, struggled with the oars, struggled against the wind, and undoubtedly been drenched in the process. They had been blinded by the darkness, but the darkness did not prevent Jesus from going to them, from leading them to safety. The darkness is not dark for our loving God, the night is as bright as day for him (Ps. 139:12). When we cannot see, we can be assured he does. When we feel we will drown in a stormy sea, we can know that for him it is solid ground which will lead him to us.

That is not to say the journey will be easy. There will be darkness, and a time will come when the safe harbor of living color will not be in this world, but we can be assured of his presence through it all.

To Breathe is to Live

Today I meet with a pulmonologist for a sleep study. The dominoes just keep falling, it seems. What started as a routine physical in November 2019 has become a journey through doctors’ offices and medical procedures, through physical trials and mental suffering I never imagined as part of my story.

Today’s appointment resulted from a referral to a doctor of integrative medicine. My oncologist does not consider the fatigue with which I suffer to be normal even though fatigue is listed as a side effect of the immunotherapy I am receiving. I’d been accepting it as part of my new norm, but he, apparently, has a different idea regarding this and wanted to address it.

Unfortunately, integrative medicine didn’t offer much of use to me. Acupuncture isn’t covered by Medicare except for back problems and I can’t afford more medical bills, so that wasn’t an option. Movement classes, which might release energy, are held in the middle of the day, in a community 45 miles from where I live and work, ruling those out. Ginseng, which research indicates is helpful for cancer patients, could interfere with the clinical trial of which I am part, so my oncologist vetoed that.

The doctor of integrative medicine had two other suggestions. An assessment suggested I might be suffering from depression. I’ve battled depression in my life, and this doesn’t feel like depression to me. While it is true I take less pleasure in activities I enjoyed in the past, it is equally true that I simply don’t have the opportunity to enjoy them. My days are spent in a pattern of alternating work and rest so I can fulfill my job responsibilities. That’s not depression, that is fatigue, but I will see a counselor to rule out that possibility.

The second possibility is that sleep apnea is preventing me from getting restful sleep at night. The doctor of integrative medicine didn’t see that as likely because I wake in the morning feeling refreshed and ready to go. However, she felt we should at least explore that option to rule it out. A sleep study begins with a consultation with a pulmonologist.

The form I filled out asked if any chest X-rays or CT scans had been done recently. I’ve had three since December, so I am taking the reports along. In December, it reported, “Examination of the chest reveals stable 2 to 3 mm nodule in the lateral right lower lobe…. No new pulmonary nodules.” That has been on scans since the beginning. In February, the report said, “Small pleural-based nodule in the inferior lingula … measuring approximately 6 mm in greatest dimension. Punctuate nodule in the medial left lower lobe … which appears stable. Small nodular cluster in the peripheral right lower lobe.”

I was concerned about the appearance of additional nodules. I’ve done my research. I know uterine cancer metastasizes to the lungs and liver. In addition to the changes in my lungs, cancer had returned to one of the lymph nodes being monitored, and there were additional lesions in my liver. My oncologist, though, assured me my condition is stable and said we would monitor the changes which concerned me.

The most recent CT scan indicates three lesions in my lymph nodes are larger than the baseline (when I started chemo in February 2020) but they are not at a threshold which concerns my oncologist. New lesions in my liver have not changed, nor apparently have those in my lungs. The report stated, “Small stable random lung nodules. Small pleural-based nodule in the lingula. No new nodules.” Unless the pulmonologist is concerned, I have to trust that my oncologist is correct in telling me not to worry about these changes in my body.

I find myself thinking, though, about a woman I met at one appointment. She had advanced to Stage IV and had just started immunotherapy. She was on oxygen and used a walker. I cannot help but wonder if that is in my future as well. Will a time come when breathing becomes another of my daily challenges? Will I be able to continue working when I reach that stage? I am not borrowing trouble when I pose those questions. I am looking at possible scenarios so I can plan.

Breath and life are interwoven in Scripture. God breathes life into Adam. According to a book I recently read for an online class, the word used for Spirit (as in Holy Spirit) is the word used not only for wind, but also for breath, specifically, the breath of life. “To cease breathing is to cease living,” the author wrote. He was trying to communicate the active, dynamic, life-giving energy of the Holy Spirit.

These days, each time I take a breath, I am reminded of that and am aware of God breathing life into me. One of the documents coming out of Vatican II says, “For if man exists, it is because God has created him through love, and through love continues to hold him in existence.” Each breath has become for me a sign of God’s life-giving love holding me in existence. That awareness may be hard to understand if you have no reason to be aware of your lungs or your breath, but once you have cause — whether, because like me, you fear future developments or because you live with respiratory problems — you cannot ignore the intimacy of God’s care and through that awareness, find peace.

Joy and Hope

My life — what I believe, what I value, how I live, the decisions I make — are shaped by my faith, by my Catholic faith.

As a child, in those pre-Vatican II days, when Mass was in Latin and children would traipse to the front of the church on Sunday mornings (at least in my parish), I would kneel before the statue of our Blessed Mother, as the priest intoned with his back to the people words I did not understand, and dwell on Marian apparitions. Loudes. Fatima. Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico. I wanted — desperately wanted — Mary to appear to me. I wanted to be good enough that she would choose to bring a message of hope through me.

That, obviously, didn’t happen. Instead, my life went off the rails when my mother died of cancer. For more than a decade, I was tossed around by the storms of life in the flimsy boat of ignorance and naivete and desperate longing. I wanted the stability of a home and the guidance of a hand that loved me. I mistook any hand that reached my way as a loving hand, not knowing then how some people prey on others, use them, abuse them, and then cast them aside.

Through it all, though, I never felt abandoned by God. Having been introduced to the Word of God by a dear friend at college, I always had a Bible at hand. I always engaged in spiritual reading, including not only Christian authors but also books about Zen Buddhism and Taoism. I stopped going to church because I could not reconcile the lifestyle I pieced together in my brokenness, in my woundedness, with the life I believed necessary to worship with the faithful, but I trusted in God’s love and his mercy. I trusted that with his view of things, he knew my heart which loved him and longed for relationship with him.

I trusted that God would help me find that place where I could, in good conscience, confess my sins and return to the fellowship of believers. I cannot say I experienced that confidence every step of the way during those long and painful years, but always there were calm moments when his grace would touch me in ways that drew me back into his loving embrace. I think of that often these days, of the way his grace would draw me out of the darkness into his loving embrace, away from the storms into moments of peace and hope.

Remembrance is an integral part of the spiritual journey, and for someone like me for whom a relationship with God has been the shaping force, all of life is a spiritual journey. Having cancer is part of my spiritual journey. Therefore, remembering what has God done during other difficult times is an integral part of living with cancer, living with the diagnosis, living with the treatment, living with the demands my body makes upon my time and the way those demands influence my decisions.

Part of that is remembering the resurrection experiences, deaths that have led to new life. Watching my dream of becoming a university professor evaporate only to realize I was a gifted artist. Watching my art career crash and burn only to find a career in journalism. Finally accepting that I would never know the intimacy and companionship of married life, only to discover that a solitary, contemplative life was my true vocation. My life has been filled with experiences such as these, great and small, which I have come to understand as God’s hand at work.

These days, I ride the wave of remembrance, because I cannot know how the cancer will progress — how quickly and what the impact will be on my life. These days, I can only trust this is a journey I am making with God’s love, just as I have traveled through all the other rough patches with his love. He recently reminded me of this. For Lent, I took an online class on the Catholic faith through Notre Dame. One of the first readings was from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, a compendium which draws together key thoughts and ideas from various church writings throughout the centuries. A line from Gaudium et spec, a Vatican II document, caught my eye.

“For if man exists, it is because God has created him through love, and through love, continues to hold him in existence.” Gaudium et spec translates as “Joy and Hope.” I found hope in that because at that moment, I needed to be reminded that God was holding me in love. My latest CT scan had showed changes and my oncologist, without committing himself to an interpretation of those changes, had asked if I had considered quitting work. I interpreted that to mean the cancer had come back with a vengeance — which was a difficult idea to consider.

But, there was joy, too. St. Paul reminds us in his Letter to the Romans, “For I am certain that nothing can separate us from his love: neither death nor life, neither angels nor other heavenly rulers, neither the present nor the future, neither the world above nor the world below — there is nothing in all creation that will ever be able to separate us from the love of God which is our through Christ Jesus our Lord” (8:38-39, GNT). I have lived loving God and knowing God loves me. That is not going to change, whether I live or whether cancer separates me from life.

As Julian of Norwich said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

Living in Holy Week Tension

I just put together a box of books for a young mother I have never met. We took an online course together, and I learned she lives in my home state and her parish priest is a man I knew as a seminarian. Those connections created a bond.

I am sending her books I think may aid her in her church ministry and might be meaningful on her spiritual journey. I am including one that a dear friend gave me as she courageously faced death a few years ago. As she prepared to die, Wanda — an ELCA minister — systematically simplified her environment by giving away her possessions. I am doing the same.

My oncologist hasn’t actually told me I am going to die, but my last CT scan showed changes to the lungs and liver. Those are the areas to which uterine cancer metastasizes. My oncologist said we can’t know the lesions in the liver are cancerous and we can’t know the nodules in the lungs are cancerous without a biopsy — and their location makes them difficult to biopsy. He said he considers my condition stable.

And then, he suggested I might want to consider quitting my job. That is simply not an option for me. Yes, I suffer from fatigue. Yes, I need to sleep 10-12 hours out of every day and can only function well (i.e., think clearly enough to write with ease) for about four hours out of every day. But, I am still able to conduct interviews and meet deadlines. I need to schedule with greater care, and sometimes I do feel so overwhelmed, I just sit and cry, but I am managing. And I have financial obligations.

But, I see the writing on the wall. That day is coming, and so I have slowly begun the process of separating myself from all those things I have gathered around myself, all those things which create the sanctuary I call home. I don’t know if I will still be able to function by myself for a while when I can no longer work or if I will need to go into a nursing home. If I can function by myself, I will need to move into low-income housing and I want that move to be as easy as possible. If I go into a nursing home, I want little left for my girls to clean out.

I find myself obsessing over odd things. I have a beautiful set of Corning Shadow Iris dinnerware which was a gift from one of the mother figures in my life. Service for eight. They have been my “good dishes” for over 30 years and I love them, not only because the delicate pattern is lovely, but because they were a gift from someone whose joy in the face of devastating challenges inspired me. I want them to go to a “good home,” where they will be appreciated. How do I find a good home?

But I also find myself walking in what I have come to understand this week as the tension of Holy Week. Jesus intentionally turned his face toward Jerusalem. He knew he’d made folks mad. We read in the gospels that religious leaders wanted to stone him because of the way he spoke with authority and challenged their hard hearts. He may not have known how he would die, but he certainly knew that he would die.

That knowledge, that certainty, didn’t prevent him from living those last days fully. In Matthew’s gospel, he enters Jerusalem at the beginning of Chapter 21, drives commercialism out of the Temple, continues to teach, shares the Passover meal with his disciples, and spends time in prayer before his arrest in Chapter 26. Mark’s gospel and Luke’s follow that same pattern. John’s gospel is structured differently with Jesus raising Lazarus, then going into Jerusalem, where he washes his disciples’ feet and does a final cram session with them before praying for them and being arrested.

Either way, he’s living those last days fully while at the same time preparing for what is to come. I think that’s why I cling to my job — while at the same time beginning to separate myself from my possessions. Yes, I could immerse myself in creative endeavors if I wasn’t working. I have two writing projects in progress and envision two others. I have some scrapbook projects to finish which I can’t do as long as we’re doing back-to-back special editions on top of the daily newspaper. As the weather improves, I would like to paint again.

But when I do my job, when I do the work to which I was called, I am — I like to believe — bringing light into the darkness of our world. I tackle tough stories — like legislation targeting transgender youth. I bring the light of truth to what is happening in government meetings. I bring the light of hope by drawing attention to the good things happening in our area. I light the way to building a stronger community by helping folks become more engaged.

I don’t mean to compare myself to Jesus in saying I bring light. If I do so, I am simply acting as a conduit of the light which is his great love for us. But I think I can say, without drawing a comparison between my suffering and his, that I find myself looking to him, especially this week, to show me how to make this journey, how to live fully while knowing my life will change in coming months.

I have come to think of it as a holy tension. I have the hope of the Resurrection. I do not need to fear death. It’s the living that may become difficult, but in reflecting on his journey this week, I have been reminded that he has walked this journey, too. I have been reminded that I can follow in his footsteps and live fully to the end.

Not a Death Sentence

I would be exaggerating if I said I received a death sentence last week. That actually came a year ago; I just didn’t know it.

Every single day we hear survival stories. We hear that folks live for years after being diagnosed with cancer. I guess, at the back of my mind, that’s what I was expecting — life to go on.

I would have chemo.

I would go into remission.

I would pick up the threads of my life and continue doing the things I had been doing when cancer entered the vocabulary of my daily life.

I was a little naive in making that assumption. First of all, when diagnosed, the uterine cancer was Stage IIIC. Sources are not in agreement regarding the five-year survival rate of someone whose cancer has spread beyond the uterus to include the lymph glands as mine had. After reviewing a number of them, I started thinking of my chances as 50-50.

Following the advice of a brochure produced by the American Cancer Society, I asked the oncologist the goal of treatment and he said without hesitation, “A cure.” While suffering through chemo, I assumed the goal was remission and there was a 50-50 chance the cancer would return in five years.

After six rounds of chemo, I learned the lesions — or tumors — which were being monitored showed a marked improvement. Two of the three appeared to be gone and the third was reduced in size. I learned at that point the outcome was better than expected. I remember sitting in the oncologist’s office thinking, “This doesn’t sound like a cure to me. I thought we were going for a cure.”

The continued course of treatment was experimental — a clinical trial with immunotherapy. Immunotherapy strengthens the immune system to fight cancer. The website for the American Cancer Society says it works better for some kinds of cancer than others, and lists seven different kinds of immunotherapy. It also says, “New immunotherapy treatments are being tested and approved, and new ways of working with the immune system are being discovered at a very fast pace.”

By participating in the clinical trial, I am helping to identify new ways immunotherapy can be used. I may be wrong, but it’s my understanding the immunotherapy I am currently receiving has been used in the past to slow the growth of the cancer cells when the patient has reached Stage IV. The trial was to determine whether using it in conjunction with chemo and immediately following chemo as part of a maintenance regime would delay recurrence.

Another factor I did not take into consideration when I received my diagnosis was one I could not have anticipated — the Covid-19 pandemic. As a result of the pandemic, the design of the clinical trial changed. The double-blind study, which was to determine whether there was a statistical difference between using the immunotherapy and not using the immunotherapy, was un-blinded. All receiving the placebo were notified and dropped from the study.

Those of us receiving the drug were allowed to continue receiving it — even though it is costly. Sources vary, but list prices between $11,000 and $20,000 per dose. Using a price of $15,000, the cost per patient during the clinical trial would have been over $500,000. With more than 200 of us receiving the drug, the cost of the trial — nationwide — would have been around $117 billion for the drug alone. Related expenses — regular bloodwork, CT scans every nine weeks, appointments with the oncologist — were to be covered by the patient and/or the patient’s insurance provider.

Last week, I learned the trial will be ending this year. Probably in November. Three months earlier than I expected.

I’ve been taking deep, slow breaths since learning that, primarily because I learned in December that my oncologist had expected the cancer to return by October, just six months after I had finished chemo. It was only then that I realized the five-year survival rate does not indicate the chances of cancer returning, but instead indicates the chances of survival if you fight every damned step of the way.

I was stunned, but not overly concerned because the immunotherapy was working. My Christmas present to my daughters was the news that the latest CT scan indicated no evidence of the disease. Even the tumor which remained after chemo was not visible to the radiologist. That was the best Christmas present ever.

Just six weeks later, I learned that treatment which appears to be working will be ending sooner than anticipated. I asked my oncologist what that means, what happens next, and learned it is a waiting game. For some forms of cancer, the immune system continues to fight the cancer after immunotherapy ceases. A little independent research indicated that in some cases, it appears to be effective for nearly a year.

I have no way of knowing what will happen in my case. The options for treatment will be limited when the cancer does return. Radiation is a possibility, depending upon where it re-emerges. Otherwise, hormone therapy and targeted therapy, both of which only slow growth, are my only options — and the side effects are not unlike chemo if my research is accurate.

At that point, it’s terminal. I can choose the suffering of treatment or an earlier death. Having gone through chemo, I’m leaning toward quality of life rather than longevity, and hoping I have the courage to live that choice.

I have to admit, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the hard truths that come with a cancer diagnosis. Sometimes, I’m overwhelmed by the realization that my days are truly numbered and just cry. At other times, I remember that God has been working with me over the course of the past decade on a single lesson: to take one day at a time, to live it fully and gratefully.

In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus says, “Look at the birds in the sky; they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns, yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are not you more important than they?” (6:26). Jesus was admonishing his disciples not to worry about their lives. “Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?” (6:27) he asked.

I know that is what I need to live every single day moving forward, and with God’s grace, I will make this cancer journey with dignity. But, I’m guessing I will also cry. I will have to leave so much that I hold dear and saying ‘good-bye’ won’t be easy.

The Path of Light

“Then God said, “Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds.” And it was so. The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.

“And God said, “Let the water teem with living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth across the vault of the sky.” So God created the great creatures of the sea and every living thing with which the water teems and that moves about in it, according to their kinds, and every winged bird according to its kind. And God saw that it was good.

“And God said, “Let the land produce living creatures according to their kinds: the livestock, the creatures that move along the ground, and the wild animals, each according to its kind.” And it was so. God made the wild animals according to their kinds, the livestock according to their kinds, and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good.” Genesis‬ ‭1:11-12, 20-21, 24-25‬ ‭NIV‬‬

I was thinking this morning, once again, about creation. The exuberance of creation has always inspired me — God doing one thing and then another and calling it good; God building upon what he had done and calling it good; God not resting while the creative fire was upon him.

It was all good — the Spirit present and beginning to shape the chaos, light from dark, water from dry land, fauna emerging, life emerging. Good! Good! Good! And then us. God, who according to Catholic theology is a relationship of love, spilled that love into us, breathed that love into us, so that we could enter into that living relationship of love.

Wow! What a powerful story of goodness and life. Who could resist it?

I realized this morning, though, that I have always overlooked one teeny, tiny detail. In Genesis 1:4, God separated the light from the darkness. He didn’t abolish the darkness; he allowed it to remain and separated the light from it. How could he do that? Why did he do that?

In terms of the natural world, darkness makes a certain amount of sense. Darkness provides a time for many living creatures to rest, allows the earth to cool, and does far more than that, which I would know and understand if I had a better grasp of the workings of the natural world.

As an artist, I can also appreciate the contrast created when light and dark are set against each other. But darkness in our world also creates fertile ground for evil to breed and grow. It’s not coincidence that John’s gospel begins, “Through him was life, and this life was the light of the human race; the light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” (1:4-5). God allowed darkness to remain, but not to overcome the light, which is the Word and is good.

But why not get rid of darkness in the first place? Why make space for it in creation? Why allow that to remain which could worm its way into the hearts and minds of humanity, causing such chaos? Causing us to hurt one another, to deprive one another of what is necessary for life, to disdain those who are different and consider them enemies? Why open the door for darkness to have a shaping force in this world?

Spoiler alert: I don’t know.

God’s wisdom is so far beyond mine that I can only bow my head with humility, and ask for the grace to led by God’s light, knowing that only his grace makes that possible. I know this because sometimes darkness seethes within me — when I hear and recognize a lie, when I am angered by the way another treats me, when I see injustice in the world, when greed and a lust for power batter away at common decency and what is sacred, when I am fearful. So much in this world threatens the spark of light that is God’s gift to me and which is how I share his light in the world.

Every so often, though, God lets just a glimmer of understanding light a little more of the way for me. This morning, that understanding came from reflecting upon a vivid dream that haunted me after I woke.

I dreamed I was a visitor in someone’s house; it was spacious and luxurious. I had also been cast to play a lead role in a theater production. I had invited folks over before the performance for a meal and after for a celebration. When I tried to plan these events, I couldn’t find paper on which to write. Then, I started cleaning the kitchen, but the more I cleaned, the larger and messier it became until I was surrounded by garbage. Suddenly, it was time to go to the theater, and I wasn’t ready and I couldn’t remember my lines or find the script. I was in a panic, but I knew I had to go whether I was ready or not.

As I began to free associate, which is the best way to explore what a dream might be saying, I realized that life is messy. I can’t make it neat and tidy, or wait to act until it is neat and tidy. I can only play the role for which I was cast, and not allow myself to be distracted by the chaos around me.

You’re probably asking, what does this have to do with darkness and light? Before God created light, there was only darkness, a formless wasteland, what a spiritual director described to me once as chaos. When God separated light from dark and immersed himself in Creation, the darkness remained and, because it remained, we must navigate through it. If we allow ourselves to become obsessed with darkness and evil, that’s where we live. But, that’s not where God wants us to live. He wants us to live in the light. He wants us to know the gifts he has given us and to use those gifts upon the stage that he gives us.

That stage may be the home; it may be the workplace; it may be in the community through volunteer work or social action. We will know we are on the path of light, not because we find ourselves in the spotlight, but because the gifts of the Spirit and the fruit of the Spirit will be evident in our lives. Instead of strife, there will be peace; instead of anger, there will be joy; instead of jealousy, there will be kindness; instead of selfishness, there will be love.

While we cannot know why God simply separated the darkness from the light, we can know that he wants us to walk in light. We can know that he helps us find that path through the gifts he gives us and the opportunities he gives us to use those gifts.

Something New

“Behold, I will do something new, Now it will spring forth; Will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, Rivers in the desert.” –– Isaiah 43:19

Yesterday I cleaned my apartment, caught up on some correspondence, downloaded and processed photographs for the newspaper story I wrote this morning, spent a couple hours in meditative journal-writing and prayer, and spent far more hours skimming through digital photos to select those I will put in a scrapbook.

On Saturday, I was even more productive. In addition to skimming digital photos, I covered an event in the community, spent several hours at the local state park doing a pastel drawing, balanced my checkbook (never an exciting task), and did the laundry.

For me, these days are sweet. Not too long ago — when I was hairless and receiving chemo — I was lucky if I managed to do two tasks each day.

During the workweek, especially in the days immediately following chemo, I would get up in the morning and make my way to my computer, using the walls as support. There, I would peck out a story, working hard to focus my attention on words blurry from chemo-related vision problems. After submitting my story for the day and checking my email, I would lurch to my recliner, weak with exhaustion, and fall into a deep sleep within minutes of raising my feet.

Later, groggy from my nap, I would head back to my computer, check my email a second time and get on the phone. I would conduct an interview for the following day’s story and schedule other interviews. Within a couple hours, I would find myself unable to concentrate and would burst into tears if I tried to push myself beyond that point.

I learned to listen to my body and to be kind. When I found myself struggling to read my calendar in order to jot down the time for an interview, or unable to remember the keyboard combinations helpful when using Photoshop, commands which were nearly automatic before I started chemo, I would quit for the day.

If I started to think about the shape of a normal day prior to my cancer diagnosis, I would be swamped with feelings of uselessness. To combat this tendency, I set reasonable goals for each day and worked to avoid comparing pre- and post-diagnosis routines. And, I knitted. Thank God for muscle memory! I didn’t have to think about the pattern I used as I knitted baby blanket after baby blanket in the evening because I’d knitted dozens of blankets using that pattern over the years.

By the time I finished my last round of chemo, sitting alone in the infusion room because visitors were not allowed during that phase of the COVID pandemic, I could no longer envision a day when I rose in the morning with energy. I could not imagine a time when doing a single load of laundry did not exhaust me, when taking the stairs to the washer and dryer in my building the necessary three times did not require a lengthy nap.

When I finished chemo and learned we hadn’t beaten the cancer, only knocked it back a bit, I was so completely and utterly worn out by the experience, I wasn’t certain the suffering had been worth the outcome. I didn’t bother asking my oncologist how much time we had gained because I knew by then he was the eternal optimist and wouldn’t give me a straight answer. He had, after all, told me that with the chemo we were going for a cure, only to tell me after the fact that the outcome — decidedly not a cure — was better than he had expected.

Recovery was slow. Nearly five weeks passed before my urine stopped having a chemical odor and my bowel movements had a normal color. During that time, my energy began to return, though I still needed a nap to function in the afternoon and evening. Near the end of that time, I was able to do my laundry and clean my apartment in a single day. It was such a tremendous accomplishment that I marked my calendar.

Bit by bit, although I still need naps, my life has begun to take on a more productive shape and I find myself appreciating every single accomplishment. When I was in the midst of chemo, the newspaper put out a special edition. I think I contributed one story. Recently, we did another and I contributed half of the stories. We’re working on my favorite one at present, and I’m doing well over half of the stories. I’m proud of that accomplishment.

I’ve also begun setting some goals. Among them is the goal of completing scrapbooks which will be my legacy for my children and grandchildren. My mother died of cancer when I was 17 and she was 40. I know she was an amazing baker and gifted seamstress. I know she worked hard in the home and was able to organize some amazing community fundraisers. I don’t know what experiences shaped her, what broke her heart, what filled her with joy. I don’t know who she was as a person or what mattered to her.

I want my family to know me — not just their experience of me, but also how I experienced my life. I think my scrapbooks will be one way of showing them who I am as a person. The photos I choose will show what is important to me. The page designs will showcase my creativity. The journaling on each page will indicate what I found important about the experiences I chose to document.

As I look back, skimming photos and planning scrapbook spreads, I also find myself looking forward. I have Stage III uterine cancer. The American Cancer Society gives me a 69% five-year survival rate. Once it spreads — probably to my lungs or liver — that drops to 17%. Initially, that was all I could think about — the ticking clock, the death which awaits me after a journey of suffering. But now, with a renewal of energy, I find myself recalling all of those wonderful Scripture passages about God doing a new thing, God promising us hope.

Last night, I reflected on Isaiah 54:2 — “Make the tent you live in larger; lengthen its ropes and strengthen the pegs!” I realized that God was telling my to make my tent — my life — larger, big enough to hold all that he has promised me. For me, that encouragement was intimate because long ago I felt God promise to bless me as he did Sarah (Abraham’s wife) and Elizabeth (Zechariah’s wife) with fruitfulness late in life. I didn’t understand that to mean a child late in life, but a gift which would be a blessing to others as well as to me.

Last night, God seemed to say, “Mary, don’t forget my promise.” After months of simply looking at the ground and putting one foot in front of the other, that helped me to look at the horizon with faith. God still has surprises for me in this life. That thought was, at this stage in my journey, something new.