I thought I’d share a fun little story because it reminded me how life is slowly returning to normal as each day passes. 

But before I tell you, an update on our Anne: As you might guess, she’s still beat. I’ve heard her describe herself to others as an electric car. Runs for a while, then she’s got to plug in (with a nap). When she’s discouraged, I say things like, “babe, you just punished the living day lights out of your body for the past year. Of course you feel whupped.” 

Actually, all of us feel whupped to one degree or another. It’s been on my mind as I ready for the coming weekend’s event.

This very weekend I will be competing in the U.S. Masters National Swiming Championships at North Carolina’s very own, state of the art Greensboro Aquatic Center. Through all of our cancer battle, I’ve managed to keep my training up (thank you, Anne and Suzanne), even if sometimes I’ve felt like a dead weight in the water. I love to compete, so why not right? 

Needing every advantage I can get now that I’ve graduated into the “midlife” age groups as I’ve dubbed them (40-44), I bought myself a fancy new racing tech suit designed to make you sleeker and faster through targeted muscle compression. 

It arrived today, so I pulled it out of the box to show to Anne. Laying it on the bed (pictured here with a razor for scale), I glanced at her eyes to see her reaction (thinking she’d say something about the bangin’ color or style).

Nope. She sat there with big eyes, a perplexed grin, and an evident look of astonishment. 

I read her mind. 

“Yeah, it’s a little tight. Takes about 20-30 minutes to put it on,” as I began miming the act of shimmying the suit on millimeter by millimeter. 

Still no words from Anne. 

“Okay I know it sounds crazy but doesn’t it look cool?”

Anne: “it’s a great color…but husband, how on earth are you going to get that on?”

“Little bit by little bit? You know. You hold your breath, tug a little, rest and repeat.”

“And where do you do this?” asked Anne with a sly, amused look, still not sure she’s believing what she’s hearing. 

“In the locker room. With all the other dudes. Doing the same thing,” I nonchalantly explain.

<Anne chuckling>

“Yep! I call it the first warm-up!”

<both laughing hard>

We swimmers really are a rare breed.  

Wish me luck!  I’ve got the hometown advantage, which is especially neat because Mom and Dad will be there to watch, just as they did over two decades ago. If any of you want to stop in and cheer, I’d love it.  Here’s the meet info: http://www.usms.org/comp/scnats16/

Remember the theme song for that wonderful TV show “Life Goes On”?

 “Ob-la-di ob-la-da life goes on bra…La-la how the life goes on.”

I’m humming that in my head today. One day at a time, life goes on. 

Thankful. 

To my precious Anne,

Last radiation treatment tomorrow. Is there a word to express the relief?!

I’ve been thinking about tomorrow this whole week. Seemed unimaginable only a few months ago. But here we are!

My eyes are wet as I type these words. If I could single out each tear, I think you’d probably see the whole cast of characters from Inside Out…

I thought I would feel a tsunami of joy watching you run across the finish line tomorrow.  But I feel really sad.  I’ve been sitting here at my desk, sobbing, wondering “what’s wrong with me?!  I should be doing high-kicks and cartwheels!”

But it all came crashing through the walls of heart. I hate what you’ve had to go through. It makes me so, so sad Annie. You’ve endured so many losses, small and large.  You lost your hair. You lost quality time with our sweet kiddos. You lost your taste buds. Your energy. You lost opportunities to do things you love like serving at school, art, working with me (okay maybe that’s a stretch :-)). You lost your breasts. The chance to play in the snow with the kids. You lost blood. And physical strength. And the sense of well-being that we all take for granted.

But as everyone can attest, you did not lose your spirit, your spark.

Nor did you ever lose sight of your Redeemer Jesus, who has held your life in His tender care.

I wanted to run this last leg of the race with you in high spirits, overjoyed and charged to carry you piggyback across the line, your arm raised with a defiant clinched fist as you shake it at the Thief.  Maybe tomorrow that’s how I’ll feel.

Tonight, well, I’m grieving. You’ve endured tremendous losses this past year, the weight of which feels heavy on me.

This brought to mind sweet, inspired words penned in a letter by a man who suffered severe hardship throughout his life.  Here’s what the beleaguered, battered, exhausted apostle Paul wrote to his beloved church in Philippi…

“Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ.”

Annie, despite all the losses, you’ve gained so much this year.

I’m with you to tomorrow’s finish line, and beyond…

K.C.A.!

With love,

Your husband

 

 

At 9:00 a.m. every weekday for the past five weeks, my faithful sidekick and chauffeur – my mom – and I hop in her car for a 15 minute commute to Duke Cancer Center. By 9:20, I’m sporting a fashionable hospital gown and sitting beside Mom in a small waiting room, where we bide time trying to guess the answer to the daily trivia question scribbled on a white board by a thoughtful staff person who knows that little things like fun trivia make a difficult start to a day a bit brighter.  Did you know that in the entire state of Wyoming there are only two escalators?

At 9:30, I’m stretched out on a platform surrounded by an imposing radiation machine and worker-bee radiation therapists who tape cameras to my tummy and focus lasers on tattooed dots on my chest, indelible markers needed to demarcate the boundaries for radiation. Yep, I boast not one, not two, but four of the world’s tiniest tattoos.

By 10:00,  I have checked off yet another of my 30 radiation treatments. After slathering a handful of goopy cream on my burned skin, I go about my day. As you can guess, my skin is starting to yell, “UNCLE!”  Thankfully, the finish line is in sight.  25 down, 5 to go.

This past Tuesday I had the privilege of being the first person to embrace a sister-warrior as she walked out of her last radiation treatment and crossed her hardcore-treatment finish line.  I handed her a bouquet of celebratory pink and yellow flowers.  We hugged on our non-burned sides as tears flowed. Gratitude. Relief. She had finally arrived at a day she had long awaited. That day that feels so far away at the moment of diagnosis.

I’ve had my head down, placing one foot in front of another, living out the daily portion of sufficient grace for nearly a year now.  Sharing tears of joy with my cancer fighting friend lifted my eyes to see ahead and taste of the relief that awaits me this coming Friday.  I wonder what I will do.  I’m sure tears will flow once again.  And other new friends in the waiting room will celebrate with me.

Five more days.  I won’t miss that cold radiation room.  I will look back on those daily 20 bizarre and vulnerable minutes of radiation with wonder, however.  The love of Christ and the presence of his Spirit have gone with me into the strangest, most chaotic, far away, lonely, foreign places of life…the far side of the sea.  Like my tiny tattoos, God’s relentless love has been forever etched on my heart a little deeper each and every morning in that big, cold room with the warning sign “VERY HIGH LEVEL OF RADIATION” hanging on the door.

Where can I flee from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?…If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.  Psalm 139:7, 9-10

“Even there,” the Psalm promises.  Yes, even THERE.

My tattoos will be a lifelong reminder of this incredible grace.  At least until the day when Christ comes and makes all things new, my marred, scarred and tattooed body included.  So, I’ll lift my eyes to look for that blessed day.  The finish line of all finish line days.  This Friday will simply be a taste. A really, really good taste.