It’s February!

 I typed that in hopes it would somehow sink in. 

To quote Gary Gnu from the classic 1980s children’s program The Great Space Coaster, “No gnus is good gnus!”

That is, our silence is the unintended byproduct of Fletchers-doing-life-in-the-here-and-now.  

All the more reason to fill you in. So, a scattershot of updates…

Anne has only TWO more chemo infusions remaining! Tomorrow, and next Wednesday. Whoop!

Following a short break, she will start radiation in early March. Everyday, Monday through Friday, for 5-6 weeks. Side effects include mild fatigue, a nasty sunburn, and a heckuva tan on her left side. 

See that too?

Yep. That’s a light. At the end of a very long tunnel.  

Anne’s state of mind seems great, all things considered. There are the latent, lingering fears that the “thief” will not have been fully eradicated by her chemo/surgeries/chemo/radiation treatments, but as we remind each other, what guarantee do any of us have that we’ll be here tomorrow?  

I feel very fortunate to have had a surprisingly busy start to the new year on the real estate front.  January is normally a slower month for me (compared to April-Oct), so admittedly I was a bit blindsided. But thankful. And keenly aware of how my Heavenly Father is looking out for the well-being of my family by giving me fantastic clients. 

My profession as a Realtor does not offer a lick of security nor any semblance of a consistent schedule. Sometimes that wears on my heart, especially when it impacts Anne and the kids. Yet year after year, the Lord provides the Fletchers’ daily bread, despite my thinking that this responsibility falls squarely on my shoulders. He is God; I ain’t. One day I’ll start to get that. 

Jack, Luke, Sarah. Doing great. Such loves. Boy have I seen the Lord’s goodness expressed in their lives over the past year. I think what has really struck me about our children is how they have matured in love, wisdom, kindness, and relationships in spite of the reality that both mom and dad haven’t been quite as available. Anne’s mom Suzanne, our dear friend Manning, teachers at St David’s, our good friends – all have played a vital role in caring for the Fletcher kids during our cancer fight. When I look and listen to them, at times I am humbled to the point of tears because I know their joy and faith have been cultivated by far more than my hands. 

So friends, I fully intended to write more. I wanted to share about sledding, the boys’ basketball, Minecraft (Anne’s hooked, and it’s the cutest thing), and Suzanne’s special award. So much more to share. 

But I’m spent. 

And have miles to go before I sleep. 

It felt good to write this. So many of you care for us. And pray, faithfully. I hope what I’ve shared provides insight into how your prayers are being answered.

These last two chemos will be the toughest for Anne. Pray for perseverance and comfort for her. For healing. And hope. Above all, for her heart to rest in the knowledge that death has no sting, no victory, no power over Jesus her King. 

Good gracious, it’s been two and a half weeks since our last post. What?!

Okay, so there are two reasons…

Anne and I enjoyed a really sweet holiday break with the kids. She had a “week off” from chemotherapy between Christmas and New Years, which was a gift itself. Feeling better than usual, Anne soaked in more quality time with the family, and vice versa.

Second, you know that phenomenon that occurs when the passage of time begins to pile up between you and a good friend, such that you feel both a tinge of guilt for having not called and the added pressure to carve out a bigger chunk of time to catch up?  And…and then you finally cave to the guilt and pressure?  There’s a little bit of that at work here too.

Yet I’m feeling the need to apologize, as I know many of you have wondered how Anne is faring, what’s the latest, and how the kids are doing. Given our context, prolonged silence can easily be construed negatively.

And then I give this blog post that title, one which immediately makes you think “oh no!” while forcing you to read this far without having given you any indication of what it means.

So now I’ll officially apologize. And do some ‘splainin… 🙂

A quick summary of Anne’s treatment to date:

• Diagnosed with breast cancer in late May last year.
• Started chemotherapy the following month for 18 weeks, receiving an infusion of potent ninja medicine every three weeks.
• Underwent surgery in October to remove both breasts, with a follow-up lymphadenectomy two weeks later to remove remaining infected nodes.
• Because she’s young and healthy, we decided to begin a second course of chemotherapy in November with a different drug called Navelbine, which has been shown to work well with Herceptin, a drug specifically designed to attack Anne’s type of breast cancer. Administered once a week for three weeks, followed by a week off. Then repeat. 

*Van, what is the miscalculation for crying out loud?!*

When Anne and I sat down with her oncologist to review the timetable for her current chemotherapy, he told us that she would receive 12 treatments. Having just finished an 18-week course of treatment in which her chemotherapy drugs were administered once every three weeks, we both concluded that her present course of treatment would last a total of 12 weeks. No math required.

Hence, Anne’s celebration in her (fantastic) last blog post that she was 2/3 of the way through her chemotherapy treatment!

But. A big ole but…

The doctor didn’t mean 12 weeks. He meant 12 treatments, or 12 infusions. Instead of her course of treatment running three months, it spans four months.  {3 infusions + 1 week off} x 4 weeks = 16 weeks.

Yep. Anne is just past the half-way mark, not over 2/3 of the way through as we had previously believed. Tack on another month of feeling icky.

Punch to the gut, right?

Well, you’d think so. Though disappointed, Anne actually handled it in stride. Knowing Anne, most of you probably are thinking, “of course she did.” No doubt, my bride is a strong woman with a deeply-rooted faith, but she’s real. Fear is a constant foe. Sadness always wants to creep in, and sometimes it needs to. There isn’t a day when she doesn’t feel weak. A “feeling-good day” for Anne isn’t any better than having mono and is often closer to exhaustion with a nauseated stomach.

Even still, realizing she had yet another month of chemotherapy didn’t rock Anne’s world. There’s definitely been a shift in her outlook, which I’ll try to touch on in a follow-up post.

I recently had breakfast with a good friend of mine, Andrew Kratz, who was asking about Anne. I explained how our “miscalculation” was such a bummer, likening it to running a marathon and discovering the finish line has moved just as you think you’re across it. No stranger to challenges – Andrew is a Special Forces Marine (I say “is” because Andrew has reminded me that while he isn’t in active service, once a Marine always a Marine) – he shared from his own experience in a way that helped me understand why Anne didn’t crumble under the realization that her chemotherapy would go another month.

“It reminds me of how the Platoon Sergeant would occasionally take us out on a five-mile run – a loop we ran daily  – and as we neared the finish line at the barracks, he’d keep running. You quickly realize this was not a five-mile run. Even the next 200 yards felt impossible. Guys would start dropping out…

“Sure, he wanted to see who was tough. But he was really teaching us that in war, there is no finish line. It’s about seeing things through until the job is done. And you don’t know when or what that looks like, so your mission isn’t about crossing a finish line. It’s a mindset. Fight until the end.”

I’m going to use that in my next blog post, I told Andrew. Too good.

Somewhere along this road, Anne stopped being a marathoner and became a Marine.

 

Wednesday mornings I arrive at the door to the chemo lounge and take a deep breath.  My quiet prayer is usually something like, “Ok Lord, here we go.  Give me courage and strength to do this.  And help me love the people around me well.”

This past Wednesday looked no different, save for the happy little Christmas tree in a corner and colorful lights lining the windows.  As usual, the dark green pleather recliners were filled with sick people receiving potent medicine to battle a common foe, cancer.  Some folks were chatty, while others sat with their eyes closed, huddled beneath a blanket.  The shadow of death always looms.  Even still, we all exchanged smiles and nods of tacit understanding about what it’s like to sit in that room.  I felt a new weight to our “Merry Christmas” greetings.

Christmas doesn’t offer a break from the battle, but I’ve been thankful for this season of Advent, a time of reflecting on the coming of Jesus, our long awaited Savior who entered our hurting, fallen, cancer-stricken, sinful world to redeem us.  It’s remarkable, isn’t it?  Our majestic, holy God took on mortal flesh and lived among those He came to save and redeem.

I love this insight from Tim Keller about Christmas:  “The gift of Christmas gives you a resource–a comfort and consolation–for dealing with suffering, because in it we see God’s willingness to enter this world of suffering to suffer with us and for us.”

2 Corinthians 8:9 may be the best summary of the meaning of Christmas in scripture…

“You know the grace of your Lord Jesus Christ that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich.”

I need Christmas this year.

I don’t need the fun holiday parties. I don’t need the presents. I don’t need the glee and sweetness of Christmas morning with all the merrymaking. I don’t even need to feel good on Christmas. But boy do I need Christmas. I need the reminder that God loves me. That He sent His son Jesus to rescue me. Not just from this broken world. Or my broken body. But from my own broken, sinful heart.

Emmanuel – God with us – changes everything.  Jesus has walked these shadowlands before me.  He is with me as I settle into my green recliner and go to battle with an enemy.  And you know what? I can’t wait for the second Advent of my King, when the once lowly, suffering Servant, who was laid in a manger at his birth and died a shameful death on a cross, will come again in triumphant glory, once and for all removing every trace of sin and sorrow.  Cancer of the body and cancer of the soul.  GONE, forever and ever.

This Christmas, Isaac Watt’s famous hymn is more encouraging to my heart than ever before…

“Joy to the world!  The Lord has come!  Let earth receive her King!  He comes to make his blessings flow far as the curse is found…  He rules the world with truth and grace and makes the nations prove the glories of his righteousness and wonders of his love…

and wonders of his love…

and wonders, wonders of his love.”

THIS is the Christmas I need.

PS – Our kids are bubbling with excitement about Christmas morning. Though I will not be feeling well, the little joys sprinkled throughout tomorrow will help!  Next week marks the 2/3 completed point in this chemo plan.  Just four more weeks of the “Clean Up Crew” to go.  I received an early present when I found out my blood counts are strong enough to skip the immune system booster shots this round.  Translation:  no achy bones side effect to weather the next few days.  AND my hair is making a strong comeback!  Even had bed head when I woke up this morning.  Good gifts from the Giver of good things.

Merry Christmas!

Anne

 

When the going is tough, I think that’s what God’s grace often looks like.  

So said I to Anne one evening last week, when we were both feeling under the weather and a bit beat up by the vagaries of life. A smile, nod and “YES” were all I needed to know she felt the same. Framed in the positive, grace in suffering is doing the next thing in front of you, even when every fiber in your being is saying, “um, no thanks.”

Our pastor has been preaching through the book of 2 Corinthians, a letter written by the apostle Paul to the church in Corinth. What Paul wrote regarding his own hardship in the letter’s opening captures what I mean:

“8For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced in Asia. For we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. 9Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death. But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead. 10He delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will deliver us again. 11You also must help us by prayer, so that many will give thanks on our behalf for the blessing granted us through the prayers of many.”

After having had a week off to let her body catch its breath, Anne goes in for chemotherapy tomorrow. Alas, she got my cold, which she’s had a harder time kicking given her body’s weakened state. Even still, Anne’s generally in good spirits, for which I am truly thankful, especially after walking alongside her through intensive chemotherapy, two surgeries, and now this second course of chemotherapy.

Friends, we feel so buoyed by your prayers, notes, gifts, and meals. Thank you, a million times over. You make grace and mercy tangible to us. Put wind in our sails. Remind us that we aren’t alone in this fight. 

I hope to update you again with less time passing between posts. 

In the meantime, please pray for Anne’s healing, for strength to endure, and for God’s comfort and peace, which knows no bounds, to invade her heart daily. 

Ain’t nobody giving up over here. 

Merry Christmas!

Van
 

Boy I love Thanksgiving. 

It’s escaped commercialization. It centers around gathering. Slowing down. Taking stock. Giving thanks.

This year, Thanksgiving had a different tenor. Having just had chemotherapy yesterday, Anne needed to lay low and rest. So we all did too. 

Game of Monopoly this morning. Then Honeybaked ham and Whole Foods sides, enjoyed around the table as we all voiced what we were grateful for. Naps and scooters and NFL football and pretend play followed. Now the kids are winding down in front of Ratatouille, preparing for bed even as Anne has found refuge in ours.

This year, thanksgiving – that is, giving thanks – has come more easily for the Fletchers. If that strikes you as an odd thing to say in light of our circumstances, I think this quick analogy will illuminate what I mean…

Which traveler is more thankful for the cold glass of water awaiting her: the one who traveled across a hot desert by high-speed train, or the one who walked?  

Listening to my children pray and express the things for which they were thankful, I was struck how our family’s hardship has made my kids better able to see and understand God’s provision and blessings. They called out specific names of friends and teachers who they felt had loved them well this year. Thankful for family, for mommy’s improving health, for the good food that people have brought, my children spouted. 

Then Anne had the wonderful idea of asking the kids what they knew about the Pilgrims and the history behind our Thanksgiving holiday. Admittedly, I had semi-forgotten the history until Jack told the story quite beautifully.

Having survived a harsh winter in which half of their brethren had died, the  Pilgrims celebrated a successful harvest season with a three day feast in the fall of 1621.  Partying alongside them were almost twice as many Native Americans, many from the Wampanoag tribe, to which the famous Squanto belonged. 

It was Squanto and the Wampanoag who had given the ill-equipped, weakened Pilgrims extra provisions to survive the harsh New England  winter. And, it was they who had helped the Pilgrims plant and grow their crops. The Pilgrims’ knew their survival as a colony was inextricably bound to the generosity of the local natives. Powerful. 

This Thanksgiving, the Fletchers are celebrating our harvest of blessings. And we are deeply thankful for you, our Wampanoag tribe.  

We’re wrapping up week two of the new Navelbine treatment for Anne.  She’s enduring with a tough-minded determination. 

The drugs’ side effects have manifested in fatigue, tingly hands, nausea and loss of appetite. Like how I felt immediately after riding the tilt-a-whirl twice with my boys at this year’s State Fair. Except worse. And hers doesn’t go away. So nevermind. 

For the first time since Anne’s treatment started in Early June, I’m under the weather. Don’t you worry – I’m seeking no pity.  Feeling bleh has given me a fresh glimpse into Anne’s daily fight. 

When I don’t feel good, everything feels harder. I “will” things a lot more.  Pouring a glass of water for a child. Taking out the trash. Making phone calls. Listening.  Being enthusiastic. 

I find it especially difficult not to let how I physically feel affect me emotionally. When I feel yucky, durn it if I don’t find myself fighting off feelings of hopelessness and despair, even though nothing externally has changed.  I feel like my sick body forms a dark cloud over my heart. 

Which brings me back to Anne. My little virus will run its course for a few days, and then I’ll be back in shape. Not Anne. Six months of feeling like crud, and many more ahead. It really hit me today: being sick has served as a fresh reminder that Anne’s cancer fight isn’t just physical. It’s mental. Emotional. Spiritual. 

Many of you reading this have endured suffering. Cancer. Loss of a loved one. Failure. Abuse. An ailment that persists. You can relate to the daily battle to “keep it together.”  It’s so stinking hard. 

So Annie – and fellow sufferers – here’s a tribute to you for ploughing ahead. Pushing through the tears. Clinging to hope. Asking for help. Embracing the reality of your hardship. Refusing to give up. Doing the next thing. Believing there’s divine purpose even though you can’t see it. Loving others in your weakness. And relying on God’s grace, daily. 

It’s a long road, Annie. I marvel at how well you are doing. Keep it up love. I’m with you. We’re with you. 

This past weekend Luke returned home from a Y-Guides outing with Van at Camp Kanata.  Flopping next to me on the sofa, he says, “Mom, I feel just like you.  Tired but happy.” 

My first thought was one of gratitude.  While I’ve had to miss out on many kid events this year, my time with Jack, Luke, and Sarah sure does make me happy.  And tired. So I guess Luke’s observation is pretty spot on. 😊

My second thought was more along the lines of: “Boy, do I have you fooled.”  Tired, yes.  Happy?  Um, not the first emotion I would choose to describe the state of my heart lately.  Battling cancer has served up almost daily platters of hard and sad experiences. 

I find myself attempting to keep the sad stuff of life in a manageable place where life seems more trouble-free(ish).  That doesn’t work for long.  Being told you have cancer certainly destroys the false comfort of the self-protected life.

 Okay, let me pause right here. 

Isn’t it good news that God isn’t like me!?  He dove headlong into my troubles – my sin troubles, hurtling me toward certain death – and overcame them so that He can always be with me in my troubles and rescue me from them. Having a Big Jesus in a broken world sure is better than a dinky Jesus in a self-protected, make-believe world. 

I love what Psalm 56:8 says about the Lord and my sadness, “You have kept count of my tossing; put my tears in your bottle.  Are they not in your book?”  And I love what the end of the story holds for us.  No more tears or sorrow or pain.  Restoration.  All things made new. That’s the promise I need on the days when a platter of sadness is shoved in my face. 

One of my favorite authors, Paul Tripp hits the nail on the head in his book, New Morning Mercies:

“No one is satisfied with things the way they are….You know the world is not stuck and that it hasn’t been abandoned by God.  You know that God is working his eternal plan.  He is moving things toward their final conclusion.  You can’t see it every day, but you know it’s true.  In the middle of your sadness there is celebration, because you’ve read the final chapter and you know how God’s grand story is going to end.”

This Resurrection hope helps me bear my losses. The loss of breasts has been particularly sad. It was a no-brainier decision to exchange a part of my body for 12 inches of scars and better health. Unlike the hair now starting to sprout atop my noggin, this part of my body will never come back. At least not in a natural way.  That’s sad.

But, a trouble-free Kingdom is coming.  As I wait for it, my faithful, good King is with me, giving me all I need to press on.  That’s hope. It makes it possible to grieve honestly, weep with those who weep too, and await the day when Jesus himself really will wipe away my tears. That’s His promise. To that my heart clings. 

Tired, happy, sad, hopeful.  All by God’s grace.

What’s next?  Yesterday I began the 12 week journey of more chemo, a.k.a “the clean up crew.” (We’ve retired the ninja terminology to help the kids)  Navelbine, as this chemo drug is called, is supposed to have less severe side effects.  Fatigue will certainly continue, and other side effects will announce themselves in the next day or so.  Radiation will begin after I complete this 12 week treatment. Sigh. 

Mercies are new each morning.  Just enough, and right on time.

Hi friends. It’s late and I hear the bed a-callin’.

Anne starts a 12-week chemotherapy cycle tomorrow. Once a week, every Wednesday. 

This new drug (Navelbine) will fatigue Anne for several more months. Not as hard-hitting as the first round, but still no cakewalk. 

And boy. You continue to care for our family so well.  Cancer is heavy, but you guys lighten the load. 

Thank, thank, thank you. 

 

There’s something invigorating about a crisp, cool Friday night that seeps into your skin and makes you temporarily forget the long week. 

At least tonight it did.  

Guess what guys?  The pathology results from Anne’s second surgery showed that only three of the 20 lymph nodes removed were infected.  Woohoo!  

Two positive implications: All infected tissue is now gone. Buh bye. More importantly, it’s unlikely that the cancer spread beyond the breast area because so few lymph nodes were actually infected (they are the body’s special filters for collecting diseases).

Thank you Lord, for your mercy to Anne. 

Once Anne heals up from surgery, she’ll begin a new course of chemotherapy for 12 weeks with a different drug that promises less severe side effects. In fact, her hair should continue to grow back. Can’t wait to see those brown curly locks again. (Though I think Anne could totally rock the buzz-cut look she has going right now.)

Switching topics to “our sweet bears,” as Anne often refers to our kiddos, I love how so many of you ask how they’re doing. If there is one place where God’s grace and kindness is evident in the midst of our hardship – I’m talking tangible.real.miraculous.unmistakable evident – it’s in our children. They are doing remarkably well. 

Just before bed tonight, I gathered our bears on the boys’ bedroom floor for a little daddy powwow.  I told them how much I appreciated the ways in which they were caring for mommy. Thinking for her. Serving her.  Their sleepy eyes brightened when I told them that mommy was beating the cancer because she was doing everything the doctors were telling her to do, even though it hurt, made her tired, and changed the way she looked for a little while. 

As we sat in a little circle, Luke gently asked, “Dad, do you think mom will perish?” Then with his hand cupped over his mouth, Luke whispered, “I said ‘perish’ because I figured Sarah wouldn’t know that word. I didn’t want her to worry.”  Oh no, I thought. How’s my astute 5 yr-old  going to react to Luke’s question?

I quickly tried to answer Luke’s earnest question with a confident no, but not before I was interrupted by Sarah, who chimed in, “Daddy, she’s not going to die right now, but probably a long time from now.”  As the words flowed out, her face was smiling, not the slightest hint of fear or sadness. 

“Well love, that’s right. So why doesn’t that make you scared?”

As her brothers moved to reassure her by holding each of her hands, Sarah answered, “Because Daddy, Mommy is gonna go to heaven where Jesus lives.  So when she does have to die, we can see her again. But that’s a looooong time from now Daddy!”

Amen, sweetheart.  Amen. 

Here we are, camped out in our little curtained recovery area at the Blue Ridge Surgery Center.  Anne’s resting beside me, hovering in a semi-conscious state induced by the lingering effects of anesthesia, pain medication, and exhaustion.

I’m relieved to report that Anne’s radical lymphadenectomy was successful. All the thief’s little node-accomplices were yanked out of hiding and thrown in the slammer for good. If any of those suckers escaped Dr. Canale’s surgical extraction, they’ll be wiped out by radiation.

Deep sigh.

In her more vulnerable moments over the past two weeks, Anne has whispered, “This feels like a bad dream. I just want to wake up and have it all be over.”

Me too sweetheart. Me too.

“I will rejoice and be glad in your steadfast love, because you have seen my affliction; you have known the distress of my soul, and you have not delivered me into the hand of the enemy; you have set my feet in a broad place.”  ~ Psalm 31:7-8

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy I came that [you] may have life and have it abundantly. I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” ~ John 10:10-11