I Can't Even Count 'Em All

Million Little Miracles

Elevation Worship and Maverick City Music

All my life I've been carried by grace
Don't ask me how 'cause I can't explain
It's nothing short of a miracle I'm here
I've got some blessings that I don't deserve
I've got some scars but that's how you learn
It's nothing short of a miracle I'm here
I think it over and it doesn't add up
I know it comes from above

I've got miracles on miracles
A million little miracles
Yeah, miracles on miracles
Count your miracles, 1-2-3-4 

I can't even count 'em all

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I've got miracles on miracles. One, two, three, four, I can't even count 'em all.

This week marks 7 months post-op. Depending where in the timeline you ask me, I'd say it's been the longest 7 months of my life, and other times I'd tell you it's been the shortest. Looking back on all that has transpired, I honestly can't believe I'm still standing.

But with the passing of time, the gravity of it all continually hits me every day. To see where I was and where I am now is nothing short of a miracle. 

A miracle, people. A miracle. 

To watch me move now, you would have no idea seven months ago I had my skull cut open, had part of a tumor removed, and left the hospital with significant impairments to the left side of my body. Now there is very little I encounter in the course of daily activities that I physically can't do. The left arm has graduated to a solid three-star Yelp review. (I think it will only ever achieve four-star status if I can get my shoulder problem sorted out. I have a new theory on that matter, which may be tied to my diagnosis, but I'm running it by some docs to confirm.)

As a conference and event planner, I have to be incredibly detail-oriented in my work. The conference I coordinate with my two all-star co-planners is next week. The to-do list is long and the pace is frantic. We're hosting over 1,800 people online. My brain is able to keep pace with the frenzy of emails and phone calls. Seven months ago, I was sitting in speech therapy session trying to figure out how to tell time. 

A miracle, people. A miracle.

Seven months ago, life felt like a deep, dark black hole, and I didn't think I'd ever find my way out. I couldn't imagine a future where my life was anything other than grief and sadness. Light has broken through. You were right, Siobhan - the night won't last forever, and there are still a lot of good miles to go.

A miracle, people. A miracle.

I can lift my left arm. 

I can grip and twist and turn things with my left hand.

I can type as fast as I could pre-surgery.

I can wiggle my left toes.

I can drive.

I can cut up an apple without fear of losing a digit.

I can make it through months, not just weeks, without having a seizure.

I can see without experiencing any "neglect."

I've got miracles on miracles, a million little miracles.

Seven months ago, I was hoping to make it out of the hospital alive.

And here I am. Alive.

A miracle, people. A miracle.

I've got miracles on miracles. One, two, three, four, I can't even count 'em all.

Functional updates:

Well, chemo cycle number three should close out the week of Thanksgiving. I still have been feeling exceptionally well with minimal side effects. There are so many things, both big and small, that genuinely feel like miracles to me. I'm still not out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination, but the days feel less like dog fights. I get overwhelmed with gratitude at just the thought of how far God has brought me.

My blood counts are starting to drop. Not drastically by any stretch of the imagination, but certainly enough to make me more prone to infections and such, so I am more mindful of who I'm around and any sort of group event. I bought a t-shirt the other day that says "Immune-compromised. I need space." But maybe I'm just using a declining immune system to cover for my introverted ways. 😉

The seizure specialist tweaked the timing of my meds in the hopes we could alleviate the daily nap situation, but it hasn't really moved the needle. He suggested maybe lowering the dose on the other med, but it would possibly raise the risk of a breakthrough seizure. Without hesitation, I responded and basically said it's out of the question. It's not worth it to me. I still have such a terrible fear of experiencing a seizure again, and I'm not going to willfully elevate that risk just so I can avoid taking naps every day. (I know, you are probably rolling your eyes. Most people dream of taking naps every day. Meanwhile, I dream of staying awake all day! I have taken a nap of some form nearly EVERY day since June 10! Every.day.)

I have my first quarterly MRI the week of Thanksgiving and will meet with the neuro-onc that week as well to review the findings.

All in all, I am feeling pretty stinkin' great and grateful.

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