If I'm being honest...

I'm coming up on my 1 year cancerversary.  I have extremely mixed emotions about it.  It slammed up against me walking through the doors of the Embassy Suites last week.  Last year at this time,  I hadn't been diagnosed yet, but I was growing concerned with the lump in my breast.  It didn't stop me however from fully participating in all of the experiences of the state tournament.

This year's tournament started off with a bevy of emotions I was so surprised to encounter.

The shedding started day 16, the first day of the hockey tournament.  Not clumps of hair, just all over hair shedding on a continuous basis.  I'm both fascinated by it, and a little appalled.  I find piles like dust bunnies skidding across the floor.  The back of my shirt looks furry sometimes.  I run my fingers through my hair with 6, 7, and 8 strands coming free all at once. The realization that new hair, new growth isn't replacing what is falling out, sinks in slowly.  

You think you are prepared for it.  But honestly?  The sinking feeling in your stomach tells you- not so much.  So Sara/Raquel/Victoria/Stella (??) sits on her foam head, waiting, beckoning from the tall dresser in the bedroom.  Soon enough her time will come.

 I've learned a lot about letting go... each hair is symbolic in a way, of all the things I'm leaving behind... many of which were never really mine to begin with- I just didn't know that. 

But, I feel vulnerable in ways I haven't before.  

I'm reminded to choose surrender over and over again.

Dr. Bouton called me from his cell phone late Friday night, while I was still at the hockey game.  My biopsy showed NO signs of cancer.  Smile.

Surrender.  The wound will just be what it will be. 

Big confession:  I have always been a helicopter parent.  Hovering, watching, intervening when necessary. I quickly discovered at the Embassy Suites this year,  this wasn't even remotely possible for me.  Lung mets make breathing hard work at times.  A slow burn begins and without much exertion, my lungs are on fire. I have to gauge how far and how fast I can go, constantly.  I also have to decide how to expend the limited energy I have.

I think the helicopter in me crash landed this past weekend.

With two boys wanting to play with their friends in often two different places in a large hotel, I had to trust them. With Rick working- downloading, editing, shooting photos, I was grateful every time someone would tell me they would watch the boys in the pool, or take them to the expo, or let them eat breakfast with them.  I felt on the verge of tears half the time, with realizations of my limitations coming left and right.  I had to rely on other's eyes and ears and place my trust in them, as well as in my boys.

Yesterday, I shouldn't have been surprised when Dr. Panwalkar told me my blood counts were too low to do chemo.  I lived both well and hard those past few days at the hockey tourney.

Any struggle I encountered this past week was met with an equally uplifting and supportive encounter with someone.  I'll return next Tuesday for blood work and hopefully chemo will recommence.

Tomorrow I have a pretty big day.  I will have sedation at 1:00pm, a brain MRI, then radiation simulations.  They will use a combination of scans to plot where the targeted radiation will go.  I will also have my mask formed, which goes over the back and front of my head and then is screwed down onto the table so I don't move.  Hello claustrophobia.  Hello double Xanax. 

How am I feeling about all of this?  Terrified, but surrendered.  

Not my way, but His way.  Not my time, but His time.  Not my plan, but His plan.

My plan is distraction tomorrow.  How can I pray for you?  If you have a specific request, please leave it in the comments below or email me.