A Human Place

Writing to you from the infusion center at Emory right now. It is a holy place. I come in and find my seat and find myself surrounded by a great army of fighters. Too many people are here. Almost every seat taken. So many in one place. Men and women fighting for more years, months, days. Fighting with everything they have in them. 

So many look so tired. I almost look away. My heart hurts to see what I see, to hear what I hear, to know what I know. 

But I don’t look away, I know I must look deeper. These fighters are not defined by their diseases. They have stories. Grand stories. Beautiful stories. Brutal stories, too. Stories full of husbands and wives and children and friends who love them. Who love the sound of their laughter and the jokes they tell and the way they smile. I am honored to sit shoulder to shoulder. Infusion seat to infusion seat. It is a gift. I receive it.

It’s a hard place, gosh, a humbling place. But Emory does everything they can to make it a very human place. There is kindness and concern everywhere I turn. My oncology nurse today acts more like a flight attendant as he makes sure I have a warm blanket and a choice snack. Though he must poke and prod my body, his kind words fall soft on my soul. It is a gift. I receive it.

In the vestibule outside of the room two teens play their violins. Their mother, I assume, sits with them, quietly encouraging. I don’t have to be told why they are here or for whom they play. It is beautiful. It is a gift. I receive it. 

At the end of my seat my husband sits. Faithful. Quiet. Encouraging. Strong for me. And funny. He’s a tremendous gift. 

Before I am finished with my infusion a bell rings toward the front of this busy center. Someone has completed their treatment. I might not ever ring that bell with my dx, but it encourages me to hear it anyway. I feel the beauty of hope. It is a gift and I receive it. 

I am grateful. 

Lord, keep us grateful. For kind people, for good medicine, for snacks offered, for violins played, for bells rung, for loved ones faithful, for days multiplied, for hope given. Lord, keep us grateful. Amen.

This Is The Day

 

I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted an update about my health. Y’all can see I’ve posted more than a few pictures of life—celebrations, milestones, and even some basic day to day stuff.

That’s because life goes on.

Even when handed a terminal diagnosis, life must go on. Because we can only teeter so long at the precipice of fear. Kate Bowler, in her book No Cure For Being Human, has a conversation with her father about living in fear versus moving forward in life. He tells her, “You can’t stay in this state of extreme vigilance. You can’t … live here anymore.”

As humans we have to figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. And so that’s what I’ve been busy doing. Each day. One foot in front of the other. Some days it feels like I’m numbingly going through the motions. Faking it a little. But, you know what? Some days I surprise myself and I find I really am living and really loving and really feeling kind of normal. Maybe better than normal because I have this new perspective that everything truly does matter. Each day really does count. Another quote from Bowler’s book explains how in a stage 4 diagnosis, “the mundane begins to sparkle.” It’s not just something found in a sappy song lyric. It’s not just a nice philosophy or some clever bumper sticker theology. Every single day DOES matter. Every day IS a gift.

Even the hard days.

Pretty quickly after hearing my diagnosis I came face to face with a decision—Either I could hunker down and hide myself under the heavy blankets of fear or I could continue to live life. In those first weeks I decided one morning to start my day declaring out loud Psalm 118:24 — “This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.” And so that’s what I do. Every morning. Each day. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I recite that verse to anyone listening, but, truly, mostly, to myself.

I need the reminder.

That practice, however, is not just for those with stage 4 cancer. Maybe it’s for you too? Maybe you are also going through the motions of life sometimes. Feeling numb. Living in fear. Wondering if there’s more. Sad about your past and unsure of your future. We all experience those feelings to some extent. Can I encourage you to join me in this morning declaration? “THIS is the day the Lord has made. I WILL rejoice and be glad in it.”

I’m inviting you. Take this step. Sometimes it really is just one step. One foot in front of the other. Step by step by step … and all of a sudden we find ourselves moving forward again … maybe even dancing a little through life once more.

Speaking of steps, I know some of you are wondering what my next steps medically might be —

I’m leaving today (soon) to spend the day at Emory University Hospital where I will have my first scans since the diagnosis. Scans are a pretty big deal as they show what’s actually happening inside of me. They show what we cannot see. Things seem pretty stable on the outside. Many of you have almost seemed startled to see me looking healthy and active … normal. We can almost forget if we look only on the outside. But, though I’m thankful for a healthy outward appearance, we know its what the inside shows which matters most. So today we will scan.

As many of you know, the scans last fall were more than a little misleading. They gave us the false news that there was no cancer evident. We have since learned my specific type of breast cancer (lobular) doesn’t always show up in PET imagery. That’s why I kept hearing the good (but false) news, “all clear!” last fall. Obviously, the biopsy doesn’t lie and so, whether the PET shows cancer lighting up or it doesn’t, the cancer is present. Going forward, the doctors have decided to use CT scans along with bone scans to monitor the bone mets. That’s what I’m doing today.

We are praying for no progression or growth, no spread to other areas, and even praying boldly for the bone lesions to have shrunk a bit. That would be great news!

The whole "scan” thing can be a source of great anxiety. In cancer circles it’s called “scanxiety.” Clever, I know. All week I’ve been feeling it begin to seep in and start its awful attack. But, strangely, today, I woke up very much at peace. I guess this is exactly what Paul is talking about in Philippians 4:6 when he tells us to “instead, in every situation with prayer and petition with thanksgiving, tell your requests to God. And the peace that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

What a privilege we have to “tell [our] requests to God.” I know the part that says I should do it with thanksgiving feels weird. Am I really going to pretend I am giving thanks for this cancer? No, probably not. But there are so many things for which I most certainly CAN give thanks. And it is this posture of gratitude which leads me closer to giving Him my worries and my fears. Don’t ask me to explain it any better than that. I don’t fully understand how it all works, but that’s exactly why Paul calls it a peace which “surpasses all understanding.”

In other good news, my body does seem to be adjusting to the different medications. Yes, I have some aches and pains especially late in the day and first thing in the morning. I wake up with stiff hands and I go to bed with sore joints and some bone pain, BUT, from everything I read about the side effects of my medications, this could be much worse. It very might become more of an issue, but we are praising God for how good I am actually feeling right now.

So that’s the update on this beautiful June 3rd morning. I won’t have results from the scans until sometime next week. Y’all know how to pray. I’m counting on you dear ones. As always, thank you for coming alongside us on this journey.

Love, Jody

Walmart and Redemption Stories

After dropping Bella off at her summer camp this morning in north Georgia, I stopped at the Walmart up there for a few quick items.

In the bin aisle, as I was attempting to match bins to their lids, I had the express joy of overhearing two men—well into their 80s—chatting. One was telling the other the story of how God rescued him as a young man, turned his life around and made what was broken, beautiful.

There was really no seamless way for me to enter into that conversation, so I didn’t. Though I kind of wanted to stop and hug them both.

Wouldn’t this world be a little better if we all took the time to share our redemption stories with each other over our carts in the aisles of Walmart? Not our success stories, but the story of our surrender and His rescue?

I mean, just stop for a minute and imagine.

And even better yet, if we all allowed ourselves to receive the free gift of God’s beautiful rescue in our own lives?

Walmart probably has over 5 million items packed onto its many metal shelves, but the best item I walked out with today? Joy!

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the LORD.” - Psalm 40