Living in the ‘pause’ –

When I last left off, I was headed for surgery. That all went well. In fact I was surprised at how little pain I actually felt after my body was cut into and sewed back together. In the UK, hospitals are still very much on a bay design on hospital wards. The bay I was assigned to on ward 7 had 4 beds. Myself and another patient undergoing breast surgery arrived around 7 am and we became fast friends. I was first on ‘the list’, but much of the morning felt like a tag team with us both getting visits from all the same people – nurses, surgeons, anesthesia. Final reminders of all that could potentially go wrong (consent for the surgery), the obligatory hospital gowns, and then sharpie marking to indicate the correct side for my lumpectomy. Then there was further sharpie artwork – marking of anatomical landmarks and use of measuring tapes to plan out where incisions were to be made and then marking up the other side as well to make it all as even as possible. It was all quite impressive and to your relief, I will spare you any very detailed pictures.

I did encounter some disappointment early on when meeting the anesthetics team. I learned that the anesthetist (anesthesiologist for those in the US reading this) would have normally had his monocle, but hadn’t worn it that day – that would have truly made my day – being put to sleep by someone wearing a monocle! They made quick work of getting me ready to go and it seemed they had just pushed some medication into my IV when I was being wakened to be told the surgery was all finished. I know most mothers will be with me when I say, ‘why did they have to go and wake me up’?? That was some of the best sleep I have had in ages. Couldn’t they just let me come around on my own? Am I right?? Who’s with me?

Since then we have been a bit stuck on ‘pause’. Hmmm, how to describe what I mean – I am not sure how many of you have young children, but even those who do not will still be able to picture it. Friday night – family movie night – everyone <finally> has their food and drink, and Dad has pushed the play button. We are in the thick of the action and a little voice asks to pause the movie – needing the toilet, wanting to get some ice cream or a drink or – fill in the blank. So we pause it as they run out of the room to accomplish whatever is needed. And we all wait. That is how I suppose things have felt the past 2 weeks – like sitting in the living room staring at the paused screen while all sorts of activity is going on elsewhere. Wanting so badly to know how the end of the movie will unfold.

So while we sit in pause, I thought it would be a good time to just chat a bit. Cancer has really provided time and material for observation. For instance, one assumes urine will usually be yellow – varying shades mind you, but on a really ‘dry’ day it may be quite dark or if I am doing a good job drinking it would be quite pale. Well, with chemo, I have had bright red urine and post op it was really the loveliest colour of blue (somehow I have a photo of the red, but not the blue – I much preferred the blue). You also get quite used to how things ‘should’ taste or smell and it is interesting how that can change your enjoyment of food and drink or even showering! (Don’t worry, I am not going to subject you to any photos of urine 🤣)

I suppose all of these things are just variations on the theme of perception or perspective. These are things that I had no control over, but there were other things that followed on from them that were absolutely within my control. Remember my association with the colour yellow? Well, I can report that I have worn yellow just this past week and had no ill effects 😁. However, there is a perfectly fine chair in a lovely corner of the chemo suite by the window, and given the choice, I would not sit in that spot again. Having only had 2 reactions to chemo therapy there were both in that chair. Even issues around my hair. That is, after all where many of you joined me on this journey – ‘losing’ my hair. I was determined not to ‘lose’ it, but to give it. Once it was gone, I still went through a time of looking in the mirror at a stranger. Once I started into my second set of chemo, some funny, wispy, cottony, frail, old-man type hair started growing in. I had kept my eyebrows and eyelashes to that point, but they all started falling out. I had just gotten used to the ‘bald’ me with brows and lashes and now here we go again. Now, I’ve got some gray and darker hair coming in, lashes and brows showing signs of returning and I am still not sure who that is in the mirror. I am sure I am the same person, but each day I barely recognize myself – all different perceptions of the same person.

So many of you have been encouraging and supportive. I have had notes, comments, letters and gifts that have thanked me for my attitude during this time and related that I have encouraged some of you. While, I am glad they have found some encouragement in my sharing my experience, I would be remiss if I took that praise for myself. As I have discussed my difficulties, and talked about some dark topics, I wanted to also make clear the source of my hope. It is not anything of my self, but having the security of being loved and accepted above all of this and REGARDLESS of how it all turns out. I know it likely sounds crazy. Has that chemo fried her brain too? Perhaps it has – that is still out for debate, but most importantly, I have placed my faith in the belief that God made me, loves me, and like any loving father, truly wants what is in my best interest. That is the reason for the verse from the book of Jeremiah on our shirts – in chapter 29 verse 11, God says “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare^[a] and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”

With making it through the milestone of surgery, I have been venturing farther afield. I have been blessed to start attending church again with my family. Although I would love to be able to sing mask free, one of the things I love best is lifting up my voice to sing with others. We are currently studying the 23rd Psalm (very fitting for one undergoing trials). There are a lot of sheep around these parts so I love the visual of the sheep and shepherd and one of the songs we sang 2 weeks ago had the following verse. I hope it (and indeed Psalm 23 itself) might bring comfort and encouragement to any who may be facing a difficult time –

The night is dark, but I am not forsaken,

for by my side, the Saviour he will stay.

I labour on in weakness and rejoicing

for in my need, his power is displayed.

To this I hold, my Shepherd will defend me; through the deepest valley he will lead.

Oh the night has been won, and I shall overcome! Yet not I , but through Christ in me.

You may recall that I mentioned that my breast surgeon is my friend that I met shortly after moving to Scotland – before I knew I would be needing a breast surgeon. Well, my friend, in her capacity of my breast surgeon phoned me last week to let me know she had seen my pathology results (the tests that are run on the tissue samples removed during surgery) and they are all clear of any cancerous cells. Woohoo! What great news! It is so easy to get caught up in the joy of that news and think – God is so good to me, chemo did it’s job and surgery was successful. But that same week, I also received news that a dear friend in my church would not be going home from the hospital. There were no more ‘good news’ phone calls for her. In that bittersweet of my good outcome and her death, I am still confident that God is good. And my two friends who have died with this same cancer over the course of my treatment so far would have told you the same. Though I am delighted about the good report, I am even more glad that I have a hope that does not rely on it.