when moments sustain...

I'm trying to learn this new landscape of weekly infusions.  I come away from infusion with a steroid induced thrum going through my body, heart and mind.  I fully use it to propel me into going out, seeing people, steeling myself for the tapering off of those adrenaline boosting drugs. I'm making up lost time, from all the months of seclusion this summer and sickness.   So I live those moments full because I can go from active- to flat on my back in sheer exhaustion, in mere seconds. 

And the rest I am coping with?  Is more nuisance and inconvenience.  It feels like I need handfuls of Imodium to loosen the tether I feel to the bathroom.  And the bloody noses.  The dry, cracked, bleeding nose.  The vaseline, the humidifier, the saline, the swabs, the kleenex.  Just another taxol side effect, more bothersome than worrisome.   

So I had every intention of being here, updating all that's transpired this past week or so... but it was Saturday night, when I crashed in a chilly heap on the bed.  Nolan had hockey tryout scrimmages we'd attended, and despite the fact it was Superman's birthday, he was coming down with a cold, and so we simply ordered pizza in, and crashed early that night.  

But in between the urgent rush to live full, and the crashing and burning that comes shortly after?  Are all the sustaining moments that bless beyond measure.  

Because it feels like the hard, is cushioned with His grace filled gifts, always. 

Like when my cousin, Pam, sends me the above card, in black and white- its one of those moments that sustains me.  The words, seep right into my heart and I'm nodding and smiling because they fit me so.  She sends the best cards, with offers of help when I need it, and words that speak to me, and I just need her to know it sustains me so. 

And then, at the same time, my friend, Connie, comes and brings me the cross from above.  It fits so perfectly in my hand, and I'm clinging and holding and hanging on again.  Thank you, Connie.  

Then the surprise from the Brantners.  They don't even know me!  But they bless us with a Bell State Bank Pay it Forward check, that is generous, and touches me, because they've never laid eyes on me. But they humble me so, and honor me in a way that is hard to attach the right words to.  But I'll start with these... Thank you, Laine and Tiffani.  We went to the Moorhead bank branch and deposited it in my old "benefit," account.  Every time, its close to being depleted, something shows up.  I feel like He shows up.  And we bank our gifts, knowing when the new deductible hits in January?  We'll have help.  Blessed help.  

How about that collage picture on the bottom?

It was weeks ago when the call first came.  I was sitting in the PT waiting room, surrounded by patients, waiting my turn for the Lymphedema therapist to see me. 

I answered the phone in a hushed voice, and heard a hushed voice in return.

"Hi Vicky, this is Chery.  (Chery is a Psychologist that facilitates our stage iv group.) We were wondering if there is any chance you might want to go to New York City?  My mind hits pause, because did she really say, New York?  Me, go to, New York?  

"We have a Breast Cancer Conference, sponsored by the Avon Foundation, and were wondering if you'd like to attend with us?  I'll go, and one other, plus you."

But most of this is somewhat lost on me, as its noisy in the waiting room, and I can barely hear, but I know I heard New York, and I'm saying Yes! 

And suddenly, its only a couple of weeks away, December 1st, and I'll be leaving for New York City! We booked our airline tickets, and reserved hotel rooms, and the excitement of going keeps drawing me forward, sustaining me.  The Avon Foundation granted us money to help run our support groups, and my mission?  To help garner more funds!  

And I have a special friend, Barb, with both enthusiasm and wonderful taste for fashion and style.  She generously brought the "New York City," bag from TJ Max and filled it with things I could wear!    She clipped ideas in pictures(above) and ran them past me, and then proceeded to get me all the right sizes, and mix and match colors and truly just gave me the confidence to feel like I'll look fine when I go. 

Could the sparkling cider have arrived at any better time?  Linda made sure to include it in a box with  a pretty sweater, cute hats, and a scarf and the beautiful Rumi card.  Its a Colton favorite and he can't wait to open it and enjoy. 

As small as I feel sometimes, vulnerable, and stripped bare.   How is it that my life feels so big?  Far bigger in ways I could have ever dreamt it could be.  

Its Ann Voskamp that sings it home for me: 

“Humbly let go. Let go of trying to do, let go of trying to control, let go of my own way, let go of my own fears. Let God blow His wind, His trials, oxygen for joy's fire. Leave the hand open and be. Be at peace. Bend the knee and be small and let God give what God chooses to give because He only gives love and whisper a surprised thanks."

I'll humbly be whispering my thanks tomorrow as I go in for lab work, then doctor's appointment, then infusion for Taxol, Perjeta, and Herceptin.  It's a long and full day... but this much I know is true...

~All shall be well~

Can I pray for you?

Please leave requests in the comments below if you are so inclined.  

The results...

Good Shepherd, our lovely church was the last stop we made before heading home Monday night.  It was another glorious sunset and it left me with such peace in my heart.

Earlier I had taken a few pics of something else that spoke to me.  My hydrangea plant has been barren all spring and summer.  It had so many blooms last year, and I longed to have them again this summer.  It had started to green up early, filling me with hope, and then we plunged into below freezing temps a few days, late this spring.  It seemed the flowers were not going to bloom this year at all.  But we never stopped watering the plant somehow, nurturing it, loving it, while we waited.

Until one day late in August, out of the blue, I stooped down as I watered, and look what I saw?  One single blossoming flower- in a lovely purplish bluish hue.  

Its fitting for the kind of summer I've had.  These minuscule moments of joy, hidden in a landscape of   hard and heavy.  But the light seems to always find a way to shine through, doesn't it? 

Dr. Panwalkar strode into the exam room yesterday morning right on time.  But stopped right at the door and...

maybe, for one of the first times I've seen in a long time...

He looked right into my eyes, and he was beaming.

He shook hands heartily with Rick, then with me, smiling as he greeted us pleasantly, and sat right down.

He fired up the computer, and we sat waiting for the images of the scans to load.  

"Oh come on..." he said impatiently.

For whatever reason, I was really calm.  

Slowly the images began to load.  

PET scan first.  He orients me to the direction, and puts the oldest and newest side by side.

He syncs them together, so that slice by slice, we can see the differences.

And let me just say, friends, oh my!  They were SO different!!

The old one, glowed yellow.  That disgusting, gut wrenching, glowing cancer activity that seemed to inhabit every slice we worked our way through.

But that isn't where we focused...

my eyes were glued to the spots, not even showing up on the other side.

Smallish splashes, mere hints of yellow, here and there.

But nothing in comparison to what it had been!

From my lungs, to my uterus, my bowels, my colon, my pelvis, etc., minimal signs of disease.  

Then we looked at the CT scan in black and white where its easier to see the cancer spots in white.  Side by side, we watched as some spots on one scan would completely not show on the other- some were gone!  Others, were definitely smaller.

But we still had one scan to go- my brain MRI.

Slowly they loaded, side by side- old and new.

I had a rather hard time with the scan on Tuesday.  They couldn't find a vein in my arm, to inject the contrast dye.  I quit counting the pokes, at 7 or 8.  Two techs, and no sweet spot on the only arm they can use.  Its so covered in black and blues spots... but I'd do it all over again... because...

For whatever reason... my two brain spots?

SHRUNK!

Even though, chemo is not supposed to cross the blood-brain barrier?

Somehow, it must have!  

Dr. Panwalkar said, sometimes chemos do cross the barrier, but its such a small percentage that they don't taut chemo as a good treatment option, especially when radiation has such a high rate of success.  

I'm smiling and nodding, and really, I'm thinking... it isn't just the chemo or the radiation- I think 

it's prayer that gets through.  It's prayer that passes muster.  

I think of my prayer list, that I gripped all the way through my MRI scan.  Over and over I prayed for all those who asked.  And for those who didn't?  I prayed gratitude for all you've done for me.  Over and over again.  

“Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle.” 
― Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are

So Dr. Panwalkar suggests we simply keep going on with the 3 chemo drugs- but he will somewhat reduce the Taxotere.  

Big sigh...

With the laundry list of symptoms I have in my hands, knowing I will have to keep enduring all of them, is overwhelming.  Plus knowing, that living with metastatic disease, I am not likely to ever go into remission.  But knocking the cancer back, squelching its ability to grow for awhile, is truly a God given gift- more time. 

Plain and simple- it's working.  Amen! 

And so Dr. Panwalkar asks, "Any other questions for me?"

And I smile big.

"Could I give you a hug?"

And he is quickly standing,  as I rise up to meet him, and he hearty laughs while saying "of course," as his arms encircle me all the way around.  He hugs me tight, and I manage to whisper, "I'm so grateful for all you do for me, Dr. Panwalkar. Thank you." And he answers back, "you're welcome."

We slip out the door, and he ushers me into the waiting room chairs, but like always, he rubs my back as he then turns to saunter off into the depths of the infusion center.  

“It is in the dark that God is passing by. The bridge and our lives shake not because God has abandoned, but the exact opposite: God is passing by. God is in the tremors. Dark is the holiest ground, the glory passing by. In the blackest, God is closest, at work, forging His perfect and right will. Though it is black and we can't see and our world seems to be free-falling and we feel utterly alone, Christ is most present to us...” 
― Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are

Chemo day

Every time I sit down to write a bit, it seems, I am jumping up to take care of something else.  After the weather went all kinds of crazy cold on us, threatening to bring winter ahead of fall, warmer temps arrived again today.  

So I've been sneaking outside with the dog, trying to figure out how to preserve a little bit of the warmth and brightness of the sun to feast on in the darkest corners of winter. 

My mom had a rough week last week.  Nolan and I surprised her with a visit early in the week, and all seemed well.  The week before we took her to the dentist to have a tooth pulled, but she seemed to be healing well and had no discomfort in her mouth.  But then, a long series of events occurred, that ultimately led to a fall the other day.  While physically she assured us she was fine, it was her raw emotions that stayed with me.  That nagging voice kept at me, no matter the assurances she gave.

Friday night I called to tell mom, that Rick was home, and we were coming to visit.  But she didn't answer.  For hours upon hours, she didn't answer her phone.  

By 10 pm,  long after we would usually have heard from her, I was starting to rapidly grow concerned.

What if she had fallen again?  What if she went for a walk outside and lost her bearings?  What if….?  

Rick, long exhausted from his 18 hour drive back from Idaho, was a trooper and got on the phone with Bethany Towers.   Could they please locate her?  

Our concern grew as they failed to establish her whereabouts.  Where could she be?  They kept saying, "oh she is probably down in the community room,  or in the dining room, etc., we could have her call when she comes back?"

Our last call to the switchboard and Rick, firmly, but politely refused to get off the phone until they found her.  As I dressed, getting ready to get in the car, he carefully explained our concern with her fall, and that her not answering her phone was not typical.  

Finally, they dispatched several people to set off on a search for her.  

Then the call came- she had been found!

She was in the room across from hers, gaining some emotional support from her friend.  The two women had lost track of time.  

Saturday we had a busy day with hockey, a birthday party, a bon fire with friends.  But I called several times to talk with mom.  Then mom tried calling us, and I answered as she hung up.  When I dialed her back, the phone was busy for a long time.  It was after we got home from the bonfire I called her again.

  It was then that she told us she had been sent to the Emergency Room because of her fall, and when I didn't answer, her sister came and took her. She has some bruised ribs and pain.  But, no fractures fortunately. 

I have so many questions?  Why two days later?  Why not the day of her fall?  What protocol for falls do I not know?  

We've had such excellent care at Bethany.  What just happened this past week?  

Rick and I will be going in to talk with the director.  

We went and spent a long time with her yesterday.  Her spirits are lifting, but she remains cautious and worries about the course of events.  

But first, I have Dr. Panwalkar this morning where we will discuss my PET scan results, then I will have chemo.  

~All shall be well~

practicing... and a side of news

I arrived at Roger Maris yesterday sans caffeine and breakfast per orders for my lab test, with a headache beginning to nag.  I was relieved I didn't have to wait too long before they drew the final vial of blood for the cholesterol panel.  Hello coffee and advil- breakfast of champions.  Oh and pancakes, because the ones they make at the cafeteria aren't half bad.

I was then surprised to get a visit from Kathy my research nurse.  6 months after completion of the study I was on for tdm1, the study would like one last pregnancy test.  She arranges for me to go back to the lab after infusion.

I sit tapping my foot in the exam room, waiting for Dr. P to arrive.  His footsteps are quiet and he is in the doorway before I know it.  He breaks into a huge smile and says- "Seems like forever since I've seen you!"  It does.

He tells me everything takes him longer on the new Epic medical chart system, so just bear with him as he clicks through all the screens.  (What normally takes me about 2 1/2 hours for a complete visit, takes 5 hours yesterday.)

He then prints out my lab results and swings around to face me. I visibly suck in air...  he goes down the list in order.  My WBC is still low, not unexpected even 2 months out from chemo.  My platelets are also still low.  But they have climbed some.

He then breaks formality, and I am reminded of the parts I love about him.  In mid sentence he stops and leans closer "Is that your hair?  No? Really? I can't tell, you really look good."  His sincerity makes me blush.

My cholesterol it turns out, is high. Just a few points above where normal should be.  And my heart rate- "off to the races as always."  He mentions the possibility of two things- the addition of two prescriptions- one to lower my cholesterol and one to lower my heart rate.  But we'll watch and wait for now.

And then we get to the very bottom of the list.  My CA 27.29- my tumor markers.  To be considered in the normal range they would need to fall below 38.  Mine are 41.  BUT, they were 44.  Smile.

I'm still stable.  Not free of cancer, its lurking in there somewhere.  But, it doesn't appear to be growing right now.  Whew.  I feel God's steadying hand on my shoulder.  All shall be well.

I get a thorough exam from Dr. Panwalkar- his fingers deftly examine every possible lymph node and he finds nothing.

Dr. Panwalkar almost sounds surprised as well.  He keeps asking if I am sure and if anything at all is different. I walk in once every few weeks wondering what cancer will do.  He walks in once every hour wondering and often knowing what cancer will do.  My gratitude for what he does knows no bounds.

"Good new, bad news he says. Good news, you don't have to come see me for two more months.  Bad news, we don't get to see you for two more months!"

Lots of people ask me this all the time- I will try to explain about the treatment I am still doing that is helping to keep me stable.

I will continue on getting Herceptin infusions once every three weeks.  Herceptin targets only bad cells, and leaves the healthy ones alone.  I will also continue on my Tamoxifen hormonal treatment-one pill daily by mouth.  Tamoxifen shuts down my estrogen- estrogen feeds my tumors.  I now have hot flahses, night sweats, and do not sleep as well at night.  Trade offs I am willing to take on.

But I will remain on break from the chemo that ends up destroying both healthy and bad cells.  I will also not have blood work or doctor visits during this time.

So... what we WILL be doing is trying to plan a trip... yep, THE trip.  More to follow...

"Beauty and terror"

"Let everything happen to you 
Beauty and terror 
Just keep going 
No feeling is final" 
— Rainer Maria Rilke






My body betrays me over and over again.  123/83.  My blood pressure is not its normal, and it matches my rapid heartbeat.  My feet tap, tap, tap, the floor as my mind wildly chases thoughts stumbling over each other, "What if?  How much?  How come?  What if...?"  Lorazepam is no match for my trembling knees, and fidgeting hands.  Its called scanxiety, or scan anxiety and I have it bad as I sit waiting for Dr. Panwalkar yesterday morning.


He mentions my higher than normal blood pressure and smiles when I tell him I am nervous.  My labs are within in the normal range with the exception of my white blood count, but that is to be expected.  He thumps down my spine waiting for me to tell him if I feel any pain.  He makes it all the way down my back without me stopping him or flinching at all.  My breaths are deep and clear.  I have no dizziness, no blurred vision.  I am eating and sleeping well.  He tells me he will call me during my infusion the next day and give me the report of my CT scan.  He then smiles and says "you're okay."  "I think you are okay."  


I arrive in the afternoon for my CT scan.  I drink the contrast solution in the liter bottle over the course of the next two hours.  With a few swallows left to go, they call my name.  They insert an iv in my vein and walk me to the scanner.  I pass by the open door the MRI scanner and shiver as I quickly scoot past the door to the next room.  The CT Scanner is wide and open at both ends.  I lay on the table and they take some measurements.  A voice then commands me to hold my breath.  The table slides in and out.  They insert the dye in my iv and I feel a stinging sensation as warmth radiates through my arm, down my body and into my legs.  I slide in and out a few more times and suddenly they announce I am done.  As I stand up from the table, I breathe deeply for the first time that day.  


This time Lorazepam kicks in nicely and I sleep deeply all night long.

I awake this morning with more resolve and am less nervous.  Its infusion day.  I have questionnaires to fill out for the study.  I also have to fill out a new consent form as the verbiage has changed some.  Another 10 tubes of blood need to be taken today and the nurse sets to work getting the right label matched to the right tube.  


Kathy, my research nurse comes in.  She closes the door and comes to sit by me.  She has the results of my CT scan.  She is serious looking and I notice I am holding my breath.  She gets right down to business.  


"There were three "spots" on your liver.  Two of those spots are no longer detectable.  The third one has gone unchanged and therefor they are concluding its a cyst.  Your liver is clear."


"The spot in your spine was 18 mm and is now 13mm."


"The mass in your breast has shown a slight decline of .2 cm."  


"No new lesions or masses were seen on the scan."


I realize I am searching her face to discern if this means what I think it means...  She smiles as I realize it does...the treatment is working.  TDM1, the "super herceptin", or the miracle drug... is working miracles in me so far.  At any time, it may stop working, or the tumor can build up a resistance to it.  But for today, its working.  


A few moments later Dr. Panwalkar calls me as promised.  He carefully repeats each bit, line by line as I let it sink in further.  When he gets to the part about the mass in my breast he says with confidence in his voice, "well that, we'll just cut out if it continues to stay there.  That is not a big concern to me."  Then he repeats his parting words to me of yesterday, "You're okay, he says, "you're okay."  


I hang up from talking with him as sweet tears of relief slide down my cheek.  I am cautiously believing him.  I know I still have a long road to travel, but for today, I rest in the knowledge I am okay.  


"Eucharisteo—thanksgiving—always precedes the miracle."
— Ann Voskamp (One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are)