The Westra World: sunsets

Showing posts with label sunsets. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 24, 2016

200 times...

I should have known...

As I have prepared for our family photoshoot with Ria, I had so many concerns flooding my head. How will I "tame" my wild hair? Its become curly with cowlicks popping up, and can I somehow manage to make it look, "photo worthy?" Can I find a shirt that fits my swollen arm, while covering my port? But please let it look cute! Can I draw in those eyebrows that are just making a reappearance? The eyelashes... or where for art thou eyelashes? Can I? A million times over, can I?

Even the day of the shoot I wonder...

Will the boys cooperate? They don't like wearing jeans... and did I match their clothes ok? Will Rick be able to carve out some time from his deadline? Will we make it in one piece?

Suddenly, it's photo day. I peek under the shade early Monday morning and the sun glints through the blue sky... and we're off. Its a day chock full of preparing for all kinds of things. But underneath, I still wonder, can I?

The time draws near for us to leave... but Rick's shirt has creases and he needs to iron. And Colton's jeans are too loose, and where is that belt? And my hair? Oh goodness, it has a mind of its own!

But suddenly we're pulling up... and it's time! And as I step out into the golden sunshine highlighting the lush green, the red hues of the rustic barn, the bursts of color from all the wild flowers... I remember...

"It's not about me..."

This life I live? Really, God's glory shone so brightly all around me I knew that even if I can't... HE can. His way, not mine. His will, not mine. And when I let go?

Look how HE shows up!

He puts my little family, in the uber talented hands of Miss Ria, and then shines a light down across all of his creation and we get to humbly stand in the midst of it. Really? The abundance overwhelms and my gratitude explodes.

And then YOU, all show up when Ria posts the photo from above on my Facebook page and says this:

"As soon as I clicked the shutter I knew this would be my favorite shot of the night. One of the things I love most about the gift of photography is the ability to see a "feeling", and I hope you can both see and FEEL love when you look at this."

And that photo gets liked, and loved over 200 times, and I'm deeply humbled by the sweetest of words and encouragement left for me. It's 200 times 200 times 200... multiplying love to infinity.

I take a few quick photos before we leave- the sun set is spectacular, just like the last time we were so blessed to shoot pictures with Ria. God's hand is clearly showing through all of this.

So this is what I'll take with me tomorrow at 1pm, to the MRI tube, and the sedation nurse. This little piece of "heaven," and my prayer list.

Can I add you to my list? How can I pray for you? Please leave a note in the comments below and as I prepare both tomorrow for the brain MRI and Friday for a PET scan, I'll pray.

I'll see Dr. Panwalkar next week and come back to share scan results soon.

And more photos to come...

Monday, June 13, 2016

simply living

Someone is always watching over me, so it seems. While preparing for my MRI a week ago, I received a call about my PET scan. Could I do it the 8th of June? I had to laugh- of course I was scheduled to get the results of the test from Dr. Panwalkar on the 7th of June. Lucky for me, when word made it back to Dr. P he simply said lets get her scanned on the 7th and I'll see her on the 8th.

As I sat in the exam room waiting for Dr. Panwalkar, Annie peeked her head in to say hello and show me the cutest new picture of Grace, her puppy. We chatted briefly and she wished me well.

Dr. P strode into the room and over to the computer desk, flipping the screen on right away. In a straightforward manner, he said "Well your PET scan report was good. I just read the report- haven't looked at the scan, but lets see."

I'm still a complete rookie looking at scans. But he spends his time orienting me to the various organs and directions we're going. Its when he gets to the lungs that he slows. "Here's the spot. Lower left lobe of your lung, is lit up. The radiologist says its consistent with inflammation of some kind."

But I don't feel relief. My questions come into play right away. Is it radiation scarring? Is it treatment related? I have such a long standing history with Dr. Panwalkar, he seems to know he has to give me more to stand on.

As I ask the questions, and Dr. Panwalkar seeks to find answers to them, he decides to go back through old scans.

And there it is. Glowing bright yellow. In the exact same place.

6 months ago my scan was clean, and 3 months prior to that was ok, but last summer before I started chemo? My lung lit up in the same spot, as it is now. That was not inflammation. Therefore, this is most likely not inflammation. But only time will tell.

So even though the report sounds really good? Dr. Panwalkar most likely thinks as I do now, the new spot is cancer again. And again I need his reassurance that we can formulate a plan A, and B or even C, for treatment.

He says we can go back to Taxotere- weekly maybe this time. And he stretches way back in my history and somehow remembers I stopped Halaven, after having a really good response to it. So I can go back to that one if need be. He names off several chemos. I'm just not letting it all soak in- I just want to float on the surface right now.

Yet, Dr. P is throwing lifelines like he knows I need him to. He knows. So much space and silence sits between us, but he doesn't fill it with anything but what I can handle right now. There's knowing in the silence.

We also go through my brain MRI, which looks precisely the same. Stable Mable.

He motions to the exam table and I climb up. He repeats his instructions to me, even though I should have every part of the exam down pat. But he listens to my lungs, and then takes a moment and simply rubs my back. No words. Just compassion. Slow. Steady. He then checks my eyes, my mouth, my stomach, my lymphedema- everything. Then he thumps down my spine and I tell him its fine. He stands then and pats that place on my back again, reassuring, and says "I think you are doing really good."

He goes to sit down and I ask, "How are you, Dr. Panwalkar?"

"Me?" He responds, sounding surprised. "I'm doing well. Thank you for asking."

I tell him I see how the chaos of the construction, and all of the congestion going on in and around the hospital can be daunting on a daily basis. So if he decides to move on- away from all of this- just let me know! His hearty laugh reverberates through the exam room, but then he offers this gem- a life-preserver.

"I'm not going anywhere. Don't worry, I won't abandon you."

With that I let go and feel all of the air start to expand my lungs again.

I may be treading water, but my head is still above the surface breathing oxygen. I'll just keep swimming. It's all I know how to do.

A new treatment plan will take shape and the right time will come in the future.

For now, I'm just going to keep living in the "meantime."

It takes Rick most of the day Saturday to get the motor running on the boat. With the hours of sunlight stretching into the evening, its time to go, despite our late start.

We're equally thrilled that Nolan decided he'd like to go. He starts "remembering when..." on the quick ride to the lake and my mother's heart is brimming with the resonance of his sweet stories. The summer we spent at The Miller's lake- weren't we so lucky they let us use the cabin for the summer? Every detail he remembers and shares with us.

The fishing starts off slow, little nibbles and bites. We laugh at the little blue gills, and crappies they catch. Then Nolan fights to land a northern that he lets his Dad hold up for him once its in the boat. We're merely catching and releasing this day.

Once again, few words are needed. It doesn't get much better than this.

We end our night with pizza at Zorbaz. I'm drunk with sunshine and being on the water and living with joy in the "in between."

We came home to conclude our weekend with game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals. It was the most "on the edge of my seat" anxiety-inducing, intense hockey I've endured in a long time.

But in the end? There he is, our #7 Matt Cullen, with the rest of the Penguins, winners of the Stanley Cup!!

Tears of joy and celebration fall, as I watch Matt's family gather around him. Much more Stanley Cup celebration is anticipated in the weeks ahead.

This morning, as I ease into this week, I begin my day with Jesus Calling.

Sarah Young

June 13th

I am creating something new in you: a bubbling spring of Joy that spills over into other's lives... My spirit flows through you to bless others. Let yourself become the reservoir of the Spirit's fruit.

Your part is to live close to Me, open to all that I am doing in you... Just keep focusing on Me as we walk through this day together. Enjoy My presence which permeates you with Love, Joy, and Peace.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

A year ago today...

Dear Dad,

It feels both like yesterday and yet forever ago at the same time. Its barely one year ago today, as Lee, Mom, and I sat making plans with the hospice nurse for your care. You were already slipping so quickly from life, but as long as you fought and as strong as your spirit was, we couldn't have known how quickly you'd leave us.

I go over and over the events of that day looking for the clues or signs we missed that July 5th was your last day on this earth. My mind fills with the sight of the big white and blue striped coffee mug meticulously filled with syringes of morphine by the nurse. You searched my face when she asked that we get you in bed. "Why," you said, "am I sick?" I faltered a minute before I said, "Well, we just think you ought to rest a bit." Who was I to crash reality down on you, when you had so bravely held it at bay?

After all, she told us. In a soft spoken, easy manner, she told us. You were in your final stages. Maybe days, maybe just a day or two. She had a comforting way about her and she put our minds at ease, even as you wrestled that day. You didn't want to lie in bed, you never lied down in your bed. You fought off the covers, kicking your legs out of the bed. You muttered and spoke things we couldn't quite make out. You brushed my hand away as I tried to lay my hand on your arm. But that mug filled with syringes- enough for a week- was where we set our eyes. We left you to rest.

My head was filled with what I would say, how I would provide comfort, the way in which you'd leave your place amongst us. We'd gather, we'd say our words. We planned- always a plan. But then I forgot the essence of who you were- and it always involved plans gone awry. Besides, clearly Dad, neither you, nor I, were ever really in charge of the plan. It frightened me, yet it comforted me. If not my hands, HIS hands, as I would come to see.

At sunset we stepped outside of the apartment for a quick breather. We stood in the driveway with our mouths agape, straining to see the glory painting the sky- blazing a trail straight up to heaven. Just hours later, as we gathered, not in your room, but just outside of it, you quietly slipped away from us. It was your way Dad. There was no bedside handholding, no words uttered, no tears shed-until we realized you had gone on ahead of us, without us.

I smile through the salt of my tears when I think about the way the sky lit up fire engine red and blaze orange, the night your soul went to heaven. You saved the best for last. It was a far better exit than I could have imagined or planned, and even in death you taught me.

Sometimes the purpose of a day is to merely feel our sadness, knowing that as we do, we allow whole layers of grief, like old skin cells to drop off us ~ Marianne Williamson

I sit here today with the lifesaving chemo drugs flowing through the needle sticking out of the port in my chest. I'm sitting with the sadness of missing you.

But, I've remembered to kick the covers off Dad.

To not spend too many days in bed.

To fight Dad, just as you fought.

With our heads up.

With grace.

And to always look for the glory in the sunset.

I love you and miss you Dad,

Snickelfritz