That was Anne’s response via text, when I asked how she was feeling this morning.

They say Day 3 after chemotherapy is when you start to really feel it.

Boy is THAT right. 

Facing the thief. Bear hunting. And feeling it. 

My mother-in-law Suzanne, herself a breast-cancer survivor, nailed it as we were talking about Anne’s physical state: “the sparkle goes out of the eyes for a while.”  Anne’s so tired that she’s having a hard time even finding the energy to talk. In fact, after attending Jack’s end-of-camp basketball game this afternoon, she came home and crashed for the last four hours.

We’re very thankful that the nausea has been minimal thus far. Praying it stays that way. As many of you can attest, that’s not always the case, as we learned firsthand during our own mothers’ successful battles with cancer.

Anne hasn’t articulated this, but I’m seeing another way in which cancer is a thief: it robs her of time with the kids. Cancer-appropriate comment – that sucks. 

Hopefully the specifics I’ve shared provide good fodder for praying. You know we love hearing how you are praying, so share away.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I’d sign off with something for which I’m thankful, that’s fun, or which gives you a window into our world. This quick story cracked me up…

Yesterday, Jack lost a tooth during basketball camp (something like his 13th?). Later that evening as we’re headed to bed, his brother Luke asked me if the tooth fairy was real (7 yr-old brain: lose a tooth, get money).

“What do you think, big guy?” I asked.  “Noooooo…but that means you and mom put money under our pillows, right?” To which I responded, “Well I don’t have to tell you that now do I!”

Coming to his brother’s defense, Jack chimes in with “Dad, it’s not like someone comes up from Africa and puts a few dollars under our pillow.”

Ha! Where Africa came from, I have no idea. But touché Jack, touché!

With gratitude and hope,

Van

This morning was the first time I had ever stepped foot in an “infusion suite.”  While a nurse immediately began attending to Anne to ready her for chemo, I found myself standing in the middle of the room trying to absorb the scene. Rows of comfy chairs facing each other, each with an IV station & equipment. Cheerful murals on the ceiling, lots of natural light, and friendly staff. Yet, I couldn’t shake sadness.

The look on my face is best described by sharing what Anne said to a group of nurses empathetically glancing over at me: “This is my husband Van, and it’s his first time here. I think he’s going through a little bit of shock at the moment.”

That was a few hours ago, and I’m still processing. I’ll have to circle back to that experience in a future blog post. To cope in the moment, I defaulted to my sense of humor, suggesting to one of the nurses that the infusion suite change its name “chemo lounge,” or just “the Lounge” for short. Lame, but oh well.

On a better note, Anne’s nurse practitioner Jamie is cool. She and Anne hit it off, and that made me happy. I jotted down the names of the four drugs that Anne is getting today – Perjeta, Taxol, Carboplatin, and Herceptin. I quickly tried to think of an acronym to help me remember the drugs, because, well, that’s how my brain works.

PaTCH was the first one; easy enough, provided I can actually recall the names of the drugs! CHuTzPa was my other, albeit more complicated, choice.  But I like the meaning: “audacity, nerve.” It takes CHuTzPa to face the thief, K.C.A. This made Anne chuckle. Score.

Now I’m back to work while Anne sits for the next 5 or so hours and let’s the ninjas go to town. It’s hard to focus. But just like my wife, I have a mission too: care for my clients, do the next thing, and trust our Father to provide for my family just as He always has.

Anne just sent me a text and a picture from the Lounge. Verbatim…

Bubby, meet the ninjas.

I’m sitting by a window with a bird feeder attached to it and lots of birds visiting. Just a happy reminder that the Lord cares for the sparrows – how much more does he care for his daughter! Kids started this morning super excited to go to camps. That was mercy for this mommy!

I’m thankful for them.

I’m docked in the waiting room of the surgery center where Anne will be having a port installed?/inserted?/rigged?/placed?  Sheesh. I’m still figuring out the terminology required to navigate the straits of cancer for my bride. 

By way of yours truly, several of you who have survived cancer sent Anne sweet notes of cheer in which you mention how great the port is, how it will be her best friend,  how much she will love it, and so forth. 

Okay, do whaaaaat? 

My knee-jerk, gut response to your ‘pep talks’ was:  “What is wrong with you people?!  How in the h-e-double-hockeysticks is that supposed to be comforting?!”  It’s funny how  strangely I process new information in the midst of a 100 things flying at me. 

Needing to stay on task, I stuck (pun intended) this whole “snuggle with your port” business on a shelf until I picked up Anne for her port-placement surgery. 

And she graciously explained…

You get stuck A LOT along the cancer treatment road. IVs, shots, blood drawn, you name it. Therein lies the beauty and mercy of the port. Easy access, convenient, and pain-free. 

Just now I was sharing my blog post with her, and she laughed. And then she welled up with tears, IV already in her, and said “that port is like a little badge of mercy.” 

Hence the title of my post. 

And why I love my wife. 

  

Winston Churchill said, “When you are going through hell, keep going.”  I wouldn’t necessarily say that I am going through hell, but having cancer is no picnic.  Actually, and pardon my French, it downright sucks.  Suck is a four-letter word in our household, in our “crass” category.  But, if one of my children walked up to me and said, “Mommy, cancer sucks.”, I would wholeheartedly agree, give a high-five of solidarity, and send them on their merry little way.

In talking to a friend last week about what this road has been like so far, we landed on a great analogy.  Dealing with cancer is a lot like the wonderful children’s song/book We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.  First, you realize there is a real bear, and he is going to eat you.  Then you start running.  (With cancer, you run at the bear.)  As you run what feels like a marathon to make it home safe and sound, there are numerous challenges along the way.  Biopsies, waiting for test results, hearing the results, more tests, waiting more, telling your kids, getting a port, wig shopping, starting chemo, living the side effects of chemo, loosing hair, surgery, radiation, and more surgery.  “We can’t go over it.  We can’t go under it.  Oh, no! We’ve got to go through it!”

My first encounter with the cancer bear was finding the lump.  Having a sobering family history of breast cancer, I have been keen on doing my self breast exams.  With a pit in my stomach, I made an appointment to see the doctor.  Grace showed up in the form of courage and that has been true ever since that lump-finding day.  Ladies, consider this my big plug to faithfully do your self breast exams.  And get those mammograms.  Be like Oprah and schedule it on your birthday so that at least you get cake and presents on the same day.  Looking back at my lump finding day, it is a day of great mercy.

Samuel Rutherford, a Scottish pastor in the 1600s, is at the top of my list of people to have coffee with one day when I arrive in Heaven. He writes, “You must learn to make evils your great good, and to spin out comforts, peace, joy, communion with Christ, out of your troubles, that are Christ’s wooers to speak for you to himself.”  (Read that again…it’s rich stuff.)  I am learning how to “spin out” better.  And God has proved a very faithful refuge as I have poured out my heart to him (Ps. 62:8).  Spinning out is much easier to do with others helping, so thank you.  This cancer bear will meet a legion full of ninjas this Tuesday morning starting at 8:15.  It’ll be a long day…8 hours for this first treatment.  I’ll be doing a lot of spinning out Tuesday and resting in the promises of Isaiah 43, “…you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you…”

I’ll sign off with a little vignette about this bear hunt.  Last Wednesday, Mom and I went wig shopping.  I wish it was for Halloween, but the reality is I have about three weeks until my hair will give up and fall out.  Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, but I sure can wear some great fake hair!  Mom and I started the day spinning good out of a crummy reality.  We found two great styles that looked remarkably similar to my hair in its natural state (curly) and straightened.  That was a relief.  The fun part?  The try-on wigs only came in blonde.  So here you are friends, blonde Anne…

I bought both wigs in my color matched brunette hair and then got in the car and cried.  That’s how it is. You face the challenge ahead, watch God pour out his grace and mercy to hold you as you go through it, and then grieve and let him do the work of binding up broken hearts (Ps. 147:3).  He can and he will.

I’m writing from Holden Beach, where I somewhat spontaneously brought the kids (sans Anne) for a long weekend stay with the Kirby family, dear friends of ours who possess three wonderful things:

1. A beach house
2. Sweet kids of almost identical ages to mine
3. The gift of hospitality

We’ve had a big time kayaking, boogie boarding, and playing in the sand.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Anne has enjoyed some quiet downtime, even seizing opportunities to do a few gratifying projects before chemotherapy starts on Tuesday.  Yesterday she popped me a picture of her just-completed organization project for our little playroom with the caption: “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

Here’s my non-earth-shattering ephiphane: Cancer – aka the thief – has a way of sapping your joy without you even knowing it. One of the antidotes is doing normal, fun stuff.  Or, to borrow a song title from the late-80s hip-hop group Digital Underground, there are times that you simply gotta “doowutchyalike.”

I know. Profound.

Ninjas, Knife, Napalm. That’s the sequence of Anne’s KCA treatment plan. Especially pray for her this Tuesday. First chemo treatment lasts eight hours. I can’t even sleep for eight hours, so the fact that my wife will have to sit with a poison drip for that long is beyond me.

Some fun pictures…

This morning Anne and I met with her oncologist to map out her treatment plan. Anne later affirmed what I sensed during our visit: it felt good to have some concrete dates in place.

There’s so much I want to say right here, but my jumbled brain is having a hard time processing things. Mainly, how to articulate what it’s like to see your spouse visibly relieved – dare I say, glad? – to know that next week she’ll have chemical grenades thrown into her bloodstream.  Or as Anne so cleverly coined for us – they’re releasing the ninjas.

That’s not to say she did cartwheels in the lounge as we left the Duke Cancer Center…

Okay. Brass tacks:

Chemo first. Starts next Tuesday, June 9th, and is repeated every three weeks over the course of about four months. Many of you know this, but chemotherapy has a cumulative effect. Meaning, Anne will feel more fatigued after each treatment. Hate that.

Surgery second. Still working out the details of what that will look like, but knowing my wife, she’s going to opt for the most fail-proof procedure. You guys probably catch my drift.

Third, radiation. That sumbitch made it to her lymph nodes, and my limited understanding is that after surgically removing the infected one, you need to cover that area with napalm to make sure you eradicate the enemy. If you can’t tell, I’m mad at Anne’s cancer right now.

Anne and I are immensely grateful for your notes, emails, texts, phone calls, meals, offers to help. We feel the outpouring of love. Bless all of you sweet people.

I’ve decided that I’m going to end each post with something that we are thankful for, or that makes us smile/laugh, or that reminds us that we live in God’s world, one that will one day be made new, perfect, right, free of cancer.

So with that in view, a fun story I just had to share:

A few weeks ago, I had the fun of being one of several parent chaperones on my son Jack’s 3rd grade field trip to the NC Zoo. One of Anne’s good friends, Laura Vann, and I were assigned to keep tabs on a grand total of four boys (two of them being our own), and so we trailed them as fast as we could through the various exhibits.

Something completely unplanned and magical happened when our boys arrived at the chimpanzee exhibit. So thankful for the iPhone, and Beastie Boys.  You just gotta watch…

https://youtu.be/nGhFLLjwbRE

Cheers-

Van