“To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man's-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over again. ”
― Pema Chödrön,
― Pema Chödrön,
If you could've taken a picture, you'd see me in near the same position as Crosby the last few days. Nolan passed along his cold to me and I was down for the count starting Tuesday.
Tuesday would have been Carole's 70th Birthday. She was mightily on our minds and in our hearts that day as Superman drove me to infusion.
It was also the first time I've had a laundry list of symptoms to report to the infusion nurse. From the mundane like cold symptoms to the dizziness plaguing me lately, to the growing lymph node under my arm. She noted them all and said Dr. Panwalkar would see her note later that day.
I was surprised when minutes later, I looked up from writing in my gratitude journal to see Dr. P standing in the doorway. "Vicky, you look great- your hair is growing so much! Lets check out that lymph node." He examines me and agrees that it has grown. We watch and wait for now, and I know a change in treatment awaits me in the future.
Tuesday we can't seem to right the ship no matter what. We list off to the side, taking on water and feeling like we can't bail fast enough.
Wednesday is Superman's birthday. We will address my dizziness through the routine 3 month MRI that has already been scheduled. Between my cold and sedation for the MRI, there will be little celebrating this day. Superman holds down the fort while fitfully I sleep.
Thursday I meet with Dr. Foster. On a day he isn't scheduled to come into Roger Maris, he agrees to see me, knowing its hard to wait for MRI results. My doctors and nurses have really come through for me this week.
I notice the sun shining brightly as I enter the building.
Whether I am still groggy from sedation the day before, or still trying to bounce back from Tuesday, I am not as anxious as I would normally feel. I quietly think its all the prayer (from all of you dear readers) I feel moving in and around me.
Dr. Foster is cheerful and gets right to the heart of the matter.
"Your scans show the spot in your head is stable. And there are no new spots." "I'm very happy with that, its good."
And here is where I want to tell you I feel like celebrating. And while I am certainly happy, its relief that I feel. It feels like a reprieve. It feels like more time. I'm timid and shy with my news.
Stable feels like the giant is sleeping and we've managed to tiptoe around him and keep him at bay a bit longer. So I am whispering good news instead of shouting. Offering praise and thanksgiving to Him for answered prayers. Basking in the fullness of the small moments of today.
We have no explanation for the dizziness, no accounting for why my wound has opened big again.
The ship still lists to the side- but I realize we aren't bailing alone. We're working on our sea legs- preparing for the next storm.
Thank you- to all who have called, texted, emailed- sent bread, cards, checks, donations, and prayers. It takes an army to keep that giant at bay, and I am so grateful to have warriors like you!