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22 years ago, my boyfriend proposed to me on the banks of the Red River in Grand Forks, North Dakota. It was his 23rd birthday. I was 20, and half way through my third year of college. We dined at a local Italian restaurant, then made our way towards the river where we walked hand in hand as snowflakes dusted our rosy-before-the-battle cheeks. I’m pretty sure I had no clue a proposal was coming, most certainly NOT on his birthday. But as my hubby-to-be knelt on one knee, I knew the only answer was YES. Yes, I will wait patiently while we’re separated by several states for a year and a half. Yes, I will obey my parents wishes and wait until I finish college before I get married. Yes, I will be your wife.

My last year and a half of college was spent STUDYING for a career in speech-language therapy and PLANNING our wedding.

If any Tom, Dick or Jane would’ve asked me what I planned for life and marriage before I walked down the aisle that blistering hot day of June ’98, I would’ve told them I envisioned life back in Minnesota after two years of grad school in Indiana, two full-time careers with solid income, a house in the suburbs, two or four kids (definitely NOT three), and celebrating our 50th wedding anniversary surrounded by children and grandchildren, just like my hubby’s grandparents, Selmer and Anita. The plan was pretty generic, I tell you. The only things I knew FOR SURE was that I was going to be a full-time working mom my entire adult life, and that I was going to be with my Superman hubby until a ripe old age, holding hands till death do us part.

I didn’t plan for life to look different. I didn’t plan for life to take so many twisty turns. I didn’t plan for any of the dirty details between YES and till death do us part. But I said YES to the husband of my dreams, YES to better or worse, YES to richer and poorer, YES to sickness and health, YES to doing life together. YES to my Superman hubby who sang me a romantic Elvis tune at our reception. YES as we first danced to Natalie Cole and Nat King Cole’s Unforgettable.

I didn’t plan for two years of full-time grad school to be totally and ridiculously stressful with classmates who were a LOT smarter than me, but I made it through with a master’s degree anyway. I didn’t plan to do home visits my first job out of grad school, but visited homes for 14 1/2 years and learned what it looks like to be powerfully present in the midst of peoples’ rawest and truest stories through that work. I didn’t plan for six years of my sister in rehabs, hospitals and halfway houses as she battled significant addiction and mental health issues and attempted to take her life more than once, but those years formed and shaped me AND my sister into who we are today. I didn’t plan to be the sole birth partner for my sister’s first and second babies, but I was, and can say today that I’ve had the privilege of being present for the birth of five human beings. I didn’t plan to have three children, but our third is a joy and the only person on earth who can make me laugh without saying a thing. I didn’t plan ANYTHING BUT a full-time career as a speech therapist, but realized a year and a half into mothering that the full-time working mom gig was NOT going to work for me, so now I say “been there done that” with 1-2-3-4 and 5-day work weeks. I didn’t plan to start dreaming about a writing career when I was three years into the career I went to grad school for, but God sets dreams in human hearts and He’ll see them to completion however He sees fit. I did NOT plan to leave my 14 1/2 year career, but three years of prayer, contemplation, and consultation with wise counsel drew me closer to my Creator and richer in faith.

I did NOT plan for my husband to be diagnosed with eye cancer three weeks after I left my career, did NOT plan for that diagnosis to come two days before I left on a week-long dream writing trip to Dominican with Compassion International, and did NOT plan to go on a mission trip to Kenya 10 months after that. I did NOT plan to walk snail’s pace with my dad on oxygen, did NOT plan for him to need a lung transplant. Did NOT plan for my husband to get laid off, did NOT plan for the layoff to be so long, did NOT plan to uproot our family and make a move from Minneapolis to Seattle, did NOT plan to build instead of buy existing, did NOT plan for everything to be so expensive, did NOT plan to drive UBER for four months, did NOT plan that our social butterfly would take the longest to adjust, did NOT plan that cancer would come back, that my husband would be diagnosed with metastatic uveal melanoma just six months after our cross-country move, did NOT plan to switch treatment facilities from Minnesota to Washington to Oregon, did NOT plan that the first treatment wouldn’t work, did NOT plan for my hubby to be enrolled in a clinical trial, did NOT plan to be asking questions and having conversations I did NOT plan to have at 42 and 45 years of age.

Nope. I did NOT plan ANY of that.

I didn’t plan to be blessed by the piano player when we went for eye cancer appointments, didn’t plan to be emptied and filled back up full on that trip to Dominican, didn’t plan to fall in love with Kenya and desire so desperately to go back. I didn’t plan for the miracle it was when my dad woke up from his lung transplant, didn’t plan for the joy it’s been to walk with my dad at a normal pace. Didn’t plan to put our trust in God the way we had to when we didn’t know WHERE we were going, WHEN we were going, or HOW we were going to get there. Didn’t plan to see limitless possibilities in a city I’d never been to, but was going to move to. I didn’t plan to find a house we hadn’t seen in a neighborhood we didn’t know about in a city we’d all but discounted as a second-tier choice. Didn’t plan that UBER driving would help me see (once again) what I was really supposed to do with my life. Didn’t plan I’d adore our kids’ new friends, didn’t plan to adore the mountains, didn’t plan to adore our new city. I didn’t plan that a guardian angel with a southern accent would gift us with chocolate pecan cakes during our journey through metastatic uveal melanoma, didn’t plan on non-stop support from out-of-state friends and family, didn’t plan to be blessed by amazing doctors and nurses when we thought we’d forever lost the best ones. I didn’t plan on sharing mimosas with a writer named Tove at a neighborhood cookie exchange, didn’t plan to be teary eyed at my daughter’s birthday party realizing this gathering of incredible women was NOT random AT ALL but rather divine providence, didn’t plan on the neighbor across the way having the sweetest girls for my daughter to play with, and didn’t plan for her to bring a special ornament my way just minutes before we left for my hubby’s third clinical trial treatment.

Nope. I did NOT plan ANY of that.

Ridiculous pain. Ridiculous joy. Ridiculous unexpected life. We don’t plan any of it.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LordAs the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow. This will be for the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign, that will endure forever.” – Isaiah 55: 8-13 

 

We were eager to get home after a day of doctor appointments, but when I’d last changed our bedsheets, my husband’s pillow protector disappeared. Thanks to heavy night sweats caused by metastatic uveal melanoma, a nasty virus and a bunch of meds, and a pillow case not staying on the way it was supposed to, we were in desperate need of a pillow protector. “We’re stopping at Bed, Bath & Beyond. You can stay in the car. I’ll run in. I’m getting you a pillow protector.”

My goal was to race in and out, grab that pillow protector and move along. But there, right in the entry of Bed, Bath & Beyond, was a hard-to-miss Christmas display. I have to admit. It was early, perhaps not that long after Halloween. But I’d been thinking of Christmas. In the midst of all the significant medical stuff, I was ready to embrace every good thing that comes with Christmas, even IF it was a little early. I stopped, touched some poinsettia placemats, picked up a snow globe and wondered if a sparkly gold candle would work in the farmhouse hurricanes on our dining room table. Wandering the aisles, I took a moment to soak in some Christmas peace before I grabbed a two-pack of pillow protectors and got in line.

“Ridiculous all this Christmas stuff out so early” grumbled the guy behind me. He was clearly NOT happy with Christmas before Thanksgiving. “Yeah, it’s a little crazy,” I said out of obligation, trying to be as benign and agreeable as possible. But the second I said it, I knew it was oh so wrong. I knew I needed ALL the Christmas stuff this season. I could have made him aware. I could have been that quiet voice nudging him to ease up on the Grinch tendencies. You see, I needed a bit of Christmas hope that day. Even if it was before Thanksgiving. Even if it was a little early.

I walked straight to the back of the drug store, straight to the pharmacy, then got in line to pick up two prescription refills for my husband. The guy in front of me was complaining to the pharmacy technician. Well, let’s just say they were complaining to each other. Grumbling loudly, without reserve. “I don’t trust these people who have all their gifts bought and wrapped already. That’s ridiculous. What’s up with you that you have all that time to be thinking about Christmas right now? Perhaps you’d better use your energy on something else.” On and on they went. Grumble grumble. Whine whine. I listened, but stayed out of it completely. The tone was judgmental, narrow minded. I just couldn’t play their game given the serious nature of my husband’s medical situation. Whether someone wants to celebrate Christmas early OR late, or early AND late is none of anyone’s business.

Fast forward to November 12th, a solid 10 days before Thanksgiving, and we’re driving three hours to Portland for an intake visit with the lead doctor of a clinical trial my husband will soon be starting for metastatic uveal melanoma. Pretty early on in the drive, he decided to recline in the passenger seat. He rested his eyes and I found some smooth jazz. “This reminds me of music they’d play in the MRI room, doesn’t it?” I joked. My husband agreed, chuckling a bit. “This is good,” he said. So we listened to the smooth jazz. Light. Easy. Unremarkable. Non-threatening. When he fell asleep, I scanned the channels and found an all-Christmas station out of Portland. Feliz Navidad, Holly Jolly Christmas, and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas played as I drove my sleeping hubby to his appointment.

Before long, we arrived. I took a few pictures to mark the occasion, our THIRD medical facility for treating my husband’s incredibly rare form of cancer called metastatic uveal melanoma. First Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. Then Seattle Cancer Care Alliance in Seattle, WA. Now Providence Cancer Center in Portland, OR. Been there, done that. Only this time, the treatment is investigational. Various studies across the country have been using this drug in trials for 2 1/2 years, and they’re hoping to have FDA approval in approximately one year. Yes, this time treatment means we’re in a research study, utilizing a treatment that’s not FDA-approved. Yet it’s an honor to help advance cutting-edge treatment options.

We got in very quickly. The nurse who entered the data and completed the vitals was lovely. The doctor in charge of the research project was ridiculously quirky and brilliant. The more he talked, the more I loved him. I wouldn’t want my husband and the father of my children in ANYONE ELSE’S hands, and that’s a LOT coming from me. I’m a picky one when it comes to doctors. I have high standards, I tell you. And this doctor was superb, the best of the best. He knew his stuff and he was geeky, quirky about it and I LOVED it. Then we were introduced to Chris, the nurse in charge of the research study. We were told he’d be our point person. He was gentle and smooth, kind and caring, knowledgable and practical, JUST the kind of point person you need when your single eye tumor metastasized into 15 liver tumors, and the first treatment option didn’t work. Lovely. Brilliant. Geeky. Quirky. Gentle. Smooth. Kind. Caring. Knowledgeable. Practical. Plus there was a cross by the Providence sign everywhere we went. Everything we needed. I knew this was where we were supposed to be at this point on our journey. As odd as it sounds, it made me happy, content, feeling full that although this wasn’t where we wanted to be, this was exactly where we needed to be.

We’re talking science here, folks. We can’t be ALL sappy and smooth sailing. So believe it or not, there was a ridiculous amount of information disseminated during our intake appointment at Providence.

The clinical trial is called IMCgp100, a Y-shaped antibody engineered with a custom function. One part of the Y sticks to the melanoma cell. The other part of the Y sticks to the T cells. It triggers the cell to activate and kill what it’s attached to. If you’re lucky enough to be among the 50% of people whose blood tests positive for HLA2, you qualify for this trial. Fortunately, two independent lab tests confirmed my hubby is indeed HLA2 positive. We are grateful because the doctor said this is currently “one of the most exciting options they have for metastatic uveal melanoma.” 40% of patients get a benefit, which is defined as some sort of tumor shrinkage. An additional 10-15% of patients see stabilization of the tumors. No patients have seen the tumors completely disappear. Once treatment starts, he will have scans every two months. As long as there is “clinical benefit” (defined as stable or shrinking) he can stay on the treatment. Treatment is WEEKLY. The first three infusions require an inpatient hospitalization. The fourth treatment may require a hospitalization as well. Treatment continues UNTIL: 1) the patient experiences “unacceptable side effects,” 2) the “cancer grows or spreads,” or 3) the “study doctor decides that it is no longer beneficial for you to continue receiving the study drug.”

Action steps included a 10-day Prednisone taper from 10 to 5 to 2.5 to zero, then holding at zero for an additional 14 days before treatment can begin. A dermatology appointment, biopsy and possible treatment of the bumps on his hands and rash on his back, chest and arms. And a two-day screening process at Portland Providence. Phew. Breathe deep, Amy. Given the requirements and minimum timelines, the week of December 10th is the earliest treatment could begin. By then, it will have been four plus months without treatment. But we are on our way. We are doing our best. Treatment will begin again.

I felt a strange sense of peace as we exited the examination room and made our way to the parking ramp. My husband didn’t seem nearly as thrilled. Perhaps it was the news that it would be another month before the new treatment could begin. Perhaps it was the reality that this is one of the most exciting new treatments available for patients with metastatic uveal melanoma, but there’s only a 50-55% chance that the tumors will shrink or stabilize. Perhaps my husband was just tired and worn.

He reclined and slept much of the way home. I turned on Spotify and enjoyed classic and acoustic Christmas tunes as I drove my sleepy hubby home to Seattle.

“Christmas songs, huh?” he said when he woke. “It doesn’t feel like Christmas at all.”

“Oh it totally does to me,” I said and kept on driving all the way to Hobby Lobby where we bought sparkly-tan poinsettias and creamy-gold berries for the Christmas tree before heading home.

Pumpkins are still out on the steps. The Give Thanks plate my mom sent is prominently displayed on the corner of our kitchen island, and the cute felt turkey is resting peacefully on our end table. Tomorrow we’ll enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with my husband’s parents who flew in for a 10-day visit. Neighbors are coming over for pie and conversation. We’ll enjoy turkey, gravy and a ridiculous abundance of food a friend of a friend dropped off for us. We’ll give thanks. We’ll express our gratitude for today, for these precious moments in time. We’ll enjoy Thanksgiving. Then come Friday, the pumpkins and turkeys are going away and we’re celebrating Christmas. We’ll celebrate Christmas EVERY day we can. We’ll celebrate when it’s far too early, before it’s time, when it’s time, and YES, even AFTER the hoopla’s put away. We give thanks AND we put our trust in the hope of Christmas. Jesus. Came as a baby. For us. Pure joy. Death is defeated. Glory be to God.

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A six-hour ER visit, nausea, fatigue, dizziness, drowsiness, lightheadedness, sweating, gastrointestinal issues, abnormally high heart rate, unusual bumps on his hands, red spots scattering his back, a light rash emerging on his abdomen and sides, a knot in his stomach, heartburn and pressure in his chest, feelings of fullness and air in the abdomen, feeling unusually and painfully full when ingesting small amounts of food, ear pain, sore throat, mild cough, and two days with oxygen saturation rates as low as 91 and 92.

These are the countless number of symptoms my husband has experienced the past eight days. His diagnosis? Metastatic uveal melanoma, an incredibly rare form of eye cancer that metastasized to his liver four and a half months ago.

Cancer is consuming, but we are pressing on.

He stayed home from work one day. Went in for two hours the next day, three hours the day after that. Managed a half day the following work day. Worked from home yesterday. Trying to work today. Work goes on. Life goes on.

Cancer is consuming, but we are pressing on.

They spent two months tapering from 100 to 7.5 mg Prednisone, brought it back to 15 for two days to combat the host of symptoms, then dropped it to 7.5 again. Tomorrow, he’ll be back on 15 for two days, then they’ll taper and hold at 10. That’ll get us through the next six days, then we’ll meet with a new doctor who’ll have his own set of requirements for the clinical trial we’ll be trying.

Cancer is consuming, but we are pressing on.

Two days ago, we went in for a CT scan and MRI of the abdomen. Yesterday, we went in for a MRI of the brain. Today, we went in to meet with the doctor.

Hallelujah, the brain, lungs and other organs are still clear and cancer free. But all the liver tumors have grown. Whereas there were 14 tumors in the liver at the last MRI on September 7, 2018, there are now 15 liver tumors. Whereas the largest tumor (aka “Segment 6”) was 3.5 x 3.1 cm on September 7th, it’s now 4.1 x 3.2 cm on November 5th. Whereas the second-largest tumor (aka “Segment 7”) was 1.8 x 1.9 cm on September 7th, it’s now 2.8 x 2.4 cm on November 5th. The rest are the size of grapes or cherry tomatoes. Mayo Clinic’s website tells me that a 3 cm tumor is the size of a strawberry and a 5 cm tumor is the size of a lime. So the biggest lesion is somewhere between a strawberry and a lime. Seems trite to compare a strawberry, lime or cherry tomato to a tumor, but for some reason, that helps us comprehend.

Cancer is consuming, but we are pressing on. 

My husband’s first treatment, immunotherapy, was deemed ineffective, as the tumors increased in size and quantity during the time he was receiving those infusions. He had a severe reaction after the third infusion, which caused his liver enzymes to soar out of control. Unusually high liver enzymes were combatted with high doses of Prednisone, which was followed by a slow Prednisone taper. Three months later, we finally have normal liver enzymes again and low enough Prednisone dosing to move on with the next-best treatment option, a clinical trial. In six days, we will drive to Portland where we’re scheduled for an intake appointment with Dr. Curti who is in charge of the clinical trial, imcGP100. We don’t have a start date for treatment. We don’t know a lot of details about the trial, in fact. But in six days, we have the intake and will hopefully know more.

Cancer is consuming, but we are pressing on. 

Every day, for the past eight days, it has been difficult to predict what the day will bring. Will my husband feel well? Will he be dizzy, lightheaded? Will he be able to work in the office, at home, at all? Will he be sleepy and ill in the morning, afternoon, evening or all three? Will I find him reclining on the comfy chair in our bedroom, taking a break from getting dressed in the morning? Will he be in bed with the door closed, or on the couch with the TV on? It’s hard to say what ANY day will bring, let alone any hour. We don’t know. We are hoping for improvement. We are hoping for stability. We are hoping for some answers. They’re telling us it could be a virus that came on at the same time as he was tapering low on the Prednisone, that his adrenal glands have taken a hit with all the Prednisone and can’t keep up with production. Oh, and did I mention, we are getting a referral to the dermatologist for those unusual assortment of bumps on his hands and red spots on his back? The doctor took pictures. He hasn’t seen anything like it. Maybe the dermatologist will know from just looking at the pictures, but she’ll probably want to see them for herself. He’s going to email the dermatologist the photos and try to get us scheduled sooner rather than later. Does anyone know what’s going on?

Cancer is consuming, but we are pressing on.

Our former neighbor texted, asking for our address so she could send something. “I’m so sorry from the bottom of my heart that I haven’t gotten something out to you yet – there are really no excuses and all I can say is we were so busy…” She then went on to describe everything that’s been happening in their family the past five months. The craziness, the chaos, the unpredictability, the projects, the trying to get everything organized again.

I stared at her text, wondering if she felt guilty for living her life and not tending to us sooner. I could write a whole post begging you to live your normal, regular, boring, everyday life, but the truth is…

LIFE is consuming for ALL of us. We are ALL pressing on.

She went on to say she thinks of us “literally every day,” that they “are praying for all of [us]…and sending [their] love.” I responded intentionally with “thank you so much.” That’s all that needed to be said. Thank you so much for thinking of us. Thank you so much for your prayers, your love, your kindness in reaching out during our time of need.

LIFE is consuming, but we press on hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year.

None of us know where each hour, each day, each week, each month will bring us. None of us can predict where we’ll be a year from now.

So live, press on your path courageously. Recognize the good AND the bad, the ying AND the yang, the excitement AND the discouragement, the projects AND the piles left undone, the ups AND the downs, the joy AND the sadness, the health AND the sickness. For we WILL have trouble, but take heart, dear one. There is a God, and He has overcome.

So wherever you are, be there. Press on. Live hard. Take your vacation. Work that job. Hug your kid. Go on an adventure. Lie in bed and feel like crap. Pray to God He’ll restore your son’s health. Cry to the song you played on repeat when you were at your lowest. Live the best life you can. Every day. For today. Good or bad. Good AND bad. No matter what. Whatever life looks like. Believe it’s okay.

 

We were in our bedroom when the call came in from the doctor. The tumors in my husband’s liver had grown by about 20% in size. Where there were 8-10 lesions upon original diagnosis of metastatic uveal melanoma on June 15th, there were now 14 on September 7th. His liver enzymes were notably elevated, indicating injury or inflammation. We’d need to see a gastroenterologist to get those liver enzymes under control. And since the tumors had increased in size and quantity, the immunotherapy treatment of Yervoy and Opdivo was deemed to be ineffective. The next best treatment option was a clinical trial in Denver. The gastroenterologist told us it would likely take “a good two months before the liver enzymes [were] stable and [he’d be] off all meds” used to bring enzymes back to normal.

Today marks FOUR months ONE week since my husband’s metastatic uveal melanoma diagnosis. TWO months TWENTY days since he received his last treatment for metastatic uveal melanoma. TWO months EIGHTEEN days since his first ER visit. TWO months SIXTEEN days since his second ER visit and hospital admission. ONE month FIFTEEN days since we found out the tumors were increasing in size and quantity. ONE month EIGHT days since we saw the gastroenterologist and began an intense pharmaceutical regimen to get the enzymes down so my husband’s liver would ready for the next treatment, a clinical trial called imcGP100. ONE week since we found out that the clinical trial will be Portland instead of Denver. ONE week since they sped up steroid tapering to get things moving faster for us. NINE hours since my husband went in for labs to see where things stand today. TWO hours since my husband texted letting me know that his liver enzymes are both finally back within normal limits after being elevated for more than two months.

So much unknown. So much uncertainty. So much waiting.

So much patience, trust and faith to get through these trying times.

Back in mid-July, I knew I was going to need extra layers of support in order to get through this experience. So while we were waiting for one of my husband’s appointments at Seattle Cancer Care Alliance, I stopped by the family and patient resource center and grabbed every handout on caregiver and family support I could. They all led me to Cancer Pathways, a nonprofit dedicated to supporting patients and families dealing with a cancer diagnosis. I submitted an online application indicating interest and providing information about our family’s situation, and soon heard back from Maddie, the person responsible for coordinating services for patients and families. By late July, Maddie and I were playing email and phone tag in an effort to connect and get me “interviewed” so we could find the most fitting caregiver support services.

Phone and email tag wasn’t cutting it. I knew I needed to find at least one extra layer of support and sooner was better than later.

Mid August, I joined a closed Facebook group for spouses of uveal melanoma and metastatic uveal melanoma patients. A couple weeks later, I joined another closed Facebook group for metastatic uveal melanoma patients and spouses of metastatic uveal melanoma patients. Since joining those closed groups, I’ve become Facebook friends with three young wives whose husbands’ had or have a diagnosis of metastatic uveal melanoma; all three of those wives have young children and understand the impact this diagnosis has on the family. First layer of support? CHECK.

In August, we met a couple at our church who have a son our son’s age, and who also happen to be building a house two doors down from us! Early September, I was seriously debating whether I should join a small group to get to know more women in our church, or whether we should join a married couples small group. One week before sign up, I happened to grab an info packet describing each small group. But the week passed and I hadn’t taken one look at it. I was on the verge of giving up on the idea of a small group. Time had run out. But I had that packet and a 10-minute drive to church. So I sat in the back seat and scanned through the group descriptions as quickly as possible. There it was. Staring back at me as if it was meant to be. The couple we’d met a month before, the couple who were going to be moving in just two doors down from us, were hosting a small group and they were open to new members! We signed up for their group and started attending the next day. The group has been a tremendous blessing and thick layer of extra support during this journey.

In August, I also began researching counselors. I wasn’t 100% sold on a counselor for myself, but I’d spoken with someone who lost his brother to cancer and he said he wished he’d begun counseling sooner, so I thought I should at least research. One referral led to another, and I found myself a private Christian counselor 15 minutes from our house. She didn’t accept insurance, but specialized in cancer patients and family members of cancer patients and came well referred, so I knew I’d found my person. She and I agreed to a 1x/month session, which is all I need, can handle, and can afford right now anyway. Our first session was excellent and provided an added layer of education, empathy and practical suggestions I can use during difficult times.

Then things finally came together with that nonprofit, Cancer Pathways, in Seattle. Last month, I joined a support group for families who are facing a cancer diagnosis in the family. I was blessed to find myself in a group of six women, all younger moms whose spouses had or have a cancer diagnosis. Two women in the group recently lost their husbands to cancer. Four of us have husbands with some sort of cancer diagnosis. It was a six-week group and our last session was last week. A new group will resume in January after the holidays. In the meantime, I can tell you this. The layer of support provided by that support group was incredible, deep, rich, a profoundly beautiful gift of connection and authenticity with women who understand what it’s like to live with such uncertainty.

Why share all of this? Why not stop after the medical update? Because one of my greatest hopes for sharing publicly is that MY STORY will inform, influence and inspire YOUR STORY. My ultimate desire is for YOU to see the significance of YOUR story. If we’re going to see our stories as having significance, then it’s crucial that we’re honest about life. Serious life circumstances have serious implications for all parties involved. When serious life circumstances come crashing at your door, the likelihood is that you’re going to need additional layers of support to get you through. In my case, I knew I was going to need more support to get through this. In fact, I told Maddie at Cancer Pathways when I originally contacted her three months ago, that I was just looking for “more layers of support.” What I didn’t know THEN that I know NOW, is that I needed SEVERAL LAYERS of support. I needed two closed Facebook groups, individual contact with moms whose husband’s were or are facing the same diagnosis, a weekly small group through church, monthly individual Christian counseling, and a caregiver support group in order to feel like ALL the bases were truly covered and I was getting ALL the support I needed. It was an incredible realization, actually. To realize you need an extra FIVE layers of support is humbling.

Here’s what you need to hear. You might need MORE support than you realize to get through what you’re going through. Reach out. Talk to a family member, a friend. Gather a group. Send an email, a text. Make a phone call. Connect with a counselor. Connect online. Find a support group. Join a small group. Get help with meals, cleaning, child care. Ask for a break. Breathe. Accept help when you get it, and don’t be afraid to accept help that’s offered repeatedly, from that same person, over and over again. They want to help you. Accept it. Do something different. Step out of your box. If something comes to mind that might be helpful? Try it. You need support. It’s okay to say you need an extra layer of support. It’s okay to say you need extra LAYERS of support to get you through whatever you’re going through. Peace be with you, my friend. Your story is important. Be blanketed in layers of love, care and support.

  1. Doreen says:

    Praying! Giving help is so much easier than receiving it……..it forces us to realize how vulnerable/dependent we really are (pride?? Ouch!). So thankful for all those “layers of support” that have come your way (because YOU reached out!).May the Lord bless y’all with His Peace………..hugs………….

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