Home is Changing

Where to begin? 

I’m a month and a half out from my last chemo. I’m feeling mostly normal now, except for some cold induced neuropathy – tingling in my hands and feet when I am cold; and a numbness in my mouth when I eat certain things.  I can’t walk quite as far as I could pre-chemo yet, but it’s coming.  What a welcome change. I feel like I spent the last 5 months in bed, and I know chemo is a miserable terrible thing (chills, fever, nausea, neuropathy, TIRED, foggy brain, apathetic feeling, and more…). Please pray that my colon cancer never ever returns, and I will never need it again.  

I’ve been released by my doctor and by Wycliffe to return to Cameroon, BUT, I will have checks for cancer every 3 months for a year and every 4 months for the next several years.  I’ll get colonoscopies done much more often.  If after 5 years it hasn’t reoccurred (in my lungs or liver), I’ll be officially cancer free. From this one anyway. 

Cameroon is not known for oncologists. SO, we have plan A.  Chris will go to Cameroon in the beginning of January and stay for a month.  Kristin will go with him and move into our friends’ (and fellow missionaries) home to finish her senior year with her class of 10 (she’s been part of the class since 6th grade). 

Noah is set to ship out to boot camp for the Marines on December 14.  If you’d like his address to send him a letter, let me know and I’ll send it when I get it.  It seems this time his leaving home will be a permanent thing.  It will be months before we can see him.

Ben and I will be holding down the fort here in Forest, Va.  He will continue with his 10th grade classes, and I’ll be taking care of my medical things and hopefully working to recruit teachers for Wycliffe’s missionary kids’ schools.  Hopefully I’ll make it to Kristin’s graduation in June, fly back with her and get her settled into college (she’s applied to 10 schools!), have my summer cancer check and return to Cameroon after that.

We have made these plans, but they are loosely held (Proverbs 16:9 A man’s mind plans his way, but the LORD directs his steps.).  One thing I definitely know now is that I have no control over anything. Visas are more difficult to get for Cameroon right now and we are waiting for our Carte d’Organisme (a type of residency card) to be renewed. There are a lot of Covid tests required – for visas, for travel, on arrival in Cameroon… We’ll need a tad bit more monthly support, partially to cover the more expensive insurance plan I need to be on. Who knows what my health will be like as we move forward, but hopefully great.

SO many changes.  So many moving pieces.  And it will be different with just one kid at home.  We are still in flux, still sorting things out, still prayerfully hopeful for plan A to happen.

And I’ve been learning. Rest, be still.  Know that the Lord is good, and he is near.  Anxiety isn’t helpful and God is in control.  I get to talk to him about everything that is going on (or not happening!) and he listens, he knows, he cares, he loves me.

Home for me for the next 6 months or so will still be in this little apartment, with fewer occupants and life will again be different. 

In my time of treatment, I understood why someone would want to quit and be okay with death.  Sometimes the cure is worse than the illness. I would not recommend chemo for old people.  It was awful.  Now I try to live each day for today.  Try. Try to enjoy my kids, the weather, the beauty of this world, friends, my sweet husband.  Because you never know what tomorrow will be like.  I am still longing for heaven and the peace and joy that will be there. No sickness, no sorrow. But for now, I’ll be here in my temporary home.

Here's some fall photos- birthdays, friends, my mom, ballet, Halloween costumes...

Chemo

Last Monday thru Wednesday I finished round 4 of chemo for my stage 3 t3n1 colon cancer. This therapy is supposed to kill any stray cancer cells in my body after they removed the tumor in my colon. It targets quickly multiplying cells in my body.  The unintended, but known, casualty of this treatment is it kills off blood/bone marrow cells too.  Because the cancer was in the lymph, I opted for the chemo, as the percent chance of the cancer coming back is significantly decreased.

 

Chemo is a cruel joke.  A promise of good with the cost of your quality of life.  For me the Sunday morning after round 3 (Monday-Wednesday), was a perfect example.  I woke up and I felt good!  Yay! I saw friends at church and said I’m feeling good, it’s not so tiring this time and halfway through the service, I felt bad. By the time it was over I was more than ready to go. I just got into the car and waited for my family. I slept and rested until dinner.  After dinner I was okay for a few hours. But then we took a walk and when we got home, I felt bad again.

 

One crazy thing about my chemo is that the doctor says this is like ‘chemo lite’ You won’t lose your hair. You may not have any side effects, but you might.  The nurses were more realistic about side effects and made sure I had medicine for nausea, diarrhea, and mouth sores. I chose to get the port the doctor recommended because everyone said it would protect my veins. But no one prepared me for the pain involved in getting a port and how uncomfortable it is.

 

What’s getting chemo like? Monday I go to the center. Before I leave home, I put a layer of numbing medicine on my port. They ‘access my port’ at the cancer center. That means the nurse puts a very large needle into the center of the quarter sided half sphere located under my right collar bone. They flush it with saline – you can taste it when they do. Weird right?  They draw blood from it. And that happens because from the port has a tube that goes over the collar bone and to my neck into the artery and to my heart.  They test the blood and check to make sure my levels are okay.  When the results come back, they start vitamins, steroids, anti-nausea medicine and finally the chemo medicine. I turn on my YouVersion Bible and listen to Psalms and fall asleep.  I wake and its almost time to go. They switch out the medicine and attach me to a portable pump about twice the size of a Walkman to take home for then next two days. 

I am tethered to this small pump that is constantly putting chemicals – chemo – poison into my body. It is supposed to target quickly dividing cells like cancer. Unfortunately, blood cells are also killed, and I feel weak. I feel sicker each day as it circulates in my body.  Wednesday I go back to the center and they remove the pump and take out the needle from the port.  Someone has to drive me because I do not feel well enough to drive.  I’m dizzy and can’t see well.  

.                 

My meds                                                        Other bays

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        The portable pump

I feel worse through Thursday – tired, slightly nauseous, maybe diarrhea, sensitive to cold.  The cold is weird. I can’t put my hands in the fridge or under cold running water in the sink because it feels like ice. My feet go to sleep in the car when the ac blow on them. And cold drinks feel like knives in my throat.  The metallic taste makes everything taste wrong.  I only want salad, eggs, oatmeal, fruit and a little meat. Or maybe nothing sounds good.  Sugar and cookies taste bad. And that is probably good since sugar feeds cancer.  I eat anyway and it makes me feel a little better.

Friday I’m a bit better, but oh, so tired and then I feel worse!  Saturday and Sunday mornings were good the first 3 times, but not after round 4. By midmorning, I need to rest and then maybe I’m okay for a few hours in the evening.  I’m sort of hungry but nothing sounds like it would taste good. My muscles feel like I've exercised all of them and now they are spasming. Monday is better.  I feel more myself.  My head is better. I have more energy. I can empty the dishwasher.  I can talk about food. I might be able to drive a little bit.  I can call people on the phone. Tuesday is still better still. I’ll almost me! Food still tastes funny, but I can eat cold things again and the ac doesn’t hurt my feet anymore.  In fact, I’m hot when I sleep like normal instead of the cold the chemo makes me feel.

And from Wednesday on I’ve felt pretty good. But then I’m thinking about the next round and dreading it.  And I’m not really feeling 100% so I’m slightly grumpy and maybe a bit depressed. I don’t have that many things I can do and covid19 makes it worse.  But I’m such an extravert I really miss seeing people. 

Sometimes in all that, I have trouble sleeping. And then I’m really a wreck: weepy, hurting, blurry vision, not able to concentrate. I might be the day I get chemo or any night.  And it’s frustrating since being overtired makes it hard to go to sleep.

 

Last Monday before the nurse started the drip, I found out from the doctor that the difference between 3 and 6 months of this chemo for me makes about 3% difference in the possibility that the cancer could come back.  I now know that that amount of difference is not worth it!  This means I’ll only have 2 more rounds and be done with it at the end of September if all goes well (meaning my blood tests show my body can take it).  YAY!!  So thankful!  I’m 2/3 of the way done! Please pray that the chemo will have killed any lasting cancer cells in my body and not done any lasting damage to the rest of me!

 

It’s taken a long three weeks to write this because I’ve felt so bad most of the time. I didn’t want to reread because that made me feel nauseous. 

A friend sent a present last week with a note. She’s had chemo and knows.  She said,” One of my struggles was that I wanted to be “brave” and have a faith that was strong, but some days it was hard for me to even read my Bible.”  I have those days.  I have days that the only prayer I can get out is “God! I hate feeling this way!” But I knows he understands, and I know there is a sea of people praying for me. Jesus saying on the cross, “My God! Why have you forsaken me?” has a whole new meaning now: that desperate place of lonely despair.

And I know I have it good: Only 3 months of misery; people who’ve prayed and made meals and given gifts. Family who loves and supports me (teens are moody, but they’ve been great most of the time). Husband who cooks and works and drives me and takes care of things while my muscles feel like they’ve been worked as hard as they can and now are shaking.  Friends and family who visit or take me places or call or text to check on me. But cancer is lonely.  It’s better to be somewhat isolated to protect from germs while your system is dealing with so much other stuff. But it is lonely. I wonder again and again how people do this without God and without a good support system. Even though I feel that way sometimes, I am believing I Peter 5:10 "The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast." I trust that the Bible is true.  It is real. God's love never fails, never ends, never changes. 

 

My motto is CHOOSE JOY.  It is not an easy choice and I don’t succeed every day.  But God is here with me and I choose him. Everyday. Always and forever.  Because he chose me first. And I know he will help me to focus on the good. Philippians 4:8 reminds me "Finally brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things." That command makes a difference. I want to be that for my kids and my husband and for myself. I pray God will help me! I'm glad heaven is my true home where there will be no more pain or tears.  

Thanks for reading this craziness. Thanks for praying, supporting, loving.  Tell your loved ones you love them and seize the day.  You only get it once.

And get your checkups - colonoscopy and mammogram and whatever else there is. Live well.  Love God.  Do good.  See beauty in the every day.

Flowers from a friend

  

Covid and Cancer

My home. I'm home still and still not at home.

We’ll be in the States for an undetermined time.  Covid19 is making returning to Cameroon unpredictable. Flights are just starting to go back and forth in the last few days.  But Wycliffe isn't ready to send anyone back to where there are limited medical facilities yet, even though we still have people there.

But now there’s Cancer. My cancer.  I have stage three colon cancer.  And like Covid 19, I keep thinking all of this is a bad dream and I'll wake up sometime.
But it's real.

Here’s the timeline so far:

May 28 I had my, ‘I just turned 50’ colonoscopy. It was originally scheduled for March 31 but was postponed due to Covid.  I had no symptoms. But Dr Musana found a large tumor.

May 29 I met the surgeon, Dr. Beverly.  He’s going to do a right Hemicolectomy.  Remove everything from the appendix up to the top of the colon and reattach the small intestines to the colon. 

June 4 CT Scan.  Cancer does not appear to have spread. They will recheck my lungs.

June 9 CT Scan. Lungs look good

            Pre-op visit   Instructions before surgery, blood draw, EKG

            CoVId19 test.   Just to check before surgery

June 15 Surgery. Dr. cut out 16 cm or so of colon and the appendix and reattached the parts. It went well.

June 18 Home. Waiting for Pathology results

June 22. Results.  Not what we wanted. Cancer in one of the 28 lymph nodes.  That makes it Stage 3 colon cancer. T3 N1a moderately differentiated.

            This changes everything.

June 30 Oncology appointment with Dr. Gorsch. He recommends 6 months of Chemo, followed by checkups every 3 months for a year, then every 6 months, then every year until 5 years post treatments.

He said this chemo doesn't usually have bad side effects and I shouldn't lose my hair. But he also prescribed 3 nausea medications, said to get immodium, and prepare a mouth rinse with water, salt and baking soda for mouth sores, and be prepared for extreme sensitivity to cold.

July 10 A port installed under my collarbone just under the skin that connects a tube into my upper vena cava for easy connection for chemo, blood draw, IVs etc. 

It hurts to move my neck when I get home. The incisions hurt. Why didn't anyone tell me how much this would hurt?

So what does all of this mean for me right now?

My theme in all of this is to choose joy.  That does not mean I feel joyful every moment, but I am trying to find beautiful and funny things every day.  To have joy and enjoy something in each day. I know that I am in the palm of His hand.  I am covered in prayer and so is my family.  I am not alone.  

I’m still recovering from the surgery.  I’m not able to be very active for very long but every day I can do more.  I get tired really quickly.  I can’t sit for very long, folded up. My belly is just uncomfortable after sitting.  I haven’t left the house very much and I haven’t cared. And if you know me, that’s just weird. 

But I am getting stronger every day. I'm beginning to want to go and do.  Getting the port slowed me down to a halt. But I'm getting better again.

So what does all this say about my home? I am thankful my true home is in heaven and though I've never been, I've read about it and believe it will be better than I can imagine.  If I die, rather when I die, it will be my forever home. 

So what am I afraid of? Mostly I'm afraid of how my family will be effected by all of this.  I'm afraid of being really sick too. Pray for my family! Pray that I can be light and salt where ever I am.

Our friends and family and the church have been fantastic to us.  We've had meals, cards, gift certificates, phone calls and emails, and most importantly prayers.  I've felt surrounded by a sea of prayers and love by so many.  I've felt peace and joy that passes understanding as a gift from God.

But I've also felt pain, fear, loneliness, and abundant sadness. And that's okay.  It's okay to feel.

How do people do this without Jesus?  How do they make it through each hard thing, every uncertainty, not knowing God is there and he loves us?


For God so loved the world that he gave-
For me. For you.

I believe.  I don't know what chemo will do to me. Hopefully it will kill any stray cancer cells and leave the rest of me alone. Regardless of what it does, I know He loves me. I am surrounded by an army of witnesses of His love. I am, have been, and will be surrounded by loving family and friends and even by the kindness of strangers, but most importantly, by His Spirit. 

Thanks for reading and praying for me, for my family, and for Cameroon.


Here's what it looked like the first 2 weeks of June, trying to get in as much exercise, family time, and fun things before surgery.  

 And some not as fun:

Getting ready-

An EKG

Hospital 'food'

The oncologist 

 But still some nice things:

My chef preparing breakfast

My first outing - returning books at the library

a few weeks later, strong enough to go to the mall

4th of July with friends including this stranded fellow missionary to Cameroon on his birthday

 Getting the Port

One of these is now just under my collar bone.
The tube goes into a vein and then to the upper vena cava

The port means no more of these for a long time