Mirror, Mirror, on the Page

I travel many a road when it comes to my reading moods. The year started with a leisurely stroll into theology (Reforesting Faith: What Trees Teach Us About the Nature of God and His Love for Us by Matthew Sleeth). From there, I meandered over to the memoirs (Surprised by Oxford by Carolyn Weber). I then hopped over historical fiction (Becoming Mrs. Lewis by Patti Callahan). I made a pit stop over to romantic suspense (One Wrong Move by Dani Pettrey), only to discover I had actually already read that one. Only a few pages in, I thought to myself, "Waaaait a minute. This feels vaguely familiar to me." Right, well, when you've already read it, yes, it should feel familiar. Although, I do have a brain tumor, so I pulled the cancer card with myself on that one and let myself off the hook. I still re-read the book as a refresher, knowing the next book in the series was about to be released.

Even now at the young age of forty, maybe I need to pull a Dan Pelzer move and start a log of every book I read. However, thanks to the wonders of technology, my library account does now maintain a 'reading history' for me. I wouldn't have recalled even the short list above if I hadn't referred to that.

Amid the highways and byways of the bookshelves, I managed to find myself reading an autobiography this summer, a task that felt equivalent to a long-haul trucking assignment, crossing state lines, aiming to get from one end to the other in a timely manner. I started it in July, thinking I'd have it done by the time I finished treatment, which was earlier this month. The entire collection is roughly nineteen volumes. I'm working on volume fifteen, so my goal of finishing by the end of treatment obviously did not happen. 

Autobiographies can be hefty reads just because they span an entire life, unlike memoirs that capture a limited point in time and are more digestible. Autobiographies can also be boring at times, tedious even, which makes it hard to push through them (see also Open by Andre Agassi. I attempted to read that earlier this year and abandoned the cause because it was, in fact, a slog, and I could not maintain the energy or desire to finish. What the author cares about may not always be what the reader cares about, and I did not care about tennis.)

It can also be disorienting at times to read everything in first-person, when you are up close and personal with the author's thoughts, behaviors, and perspectives. Maybe you cringe a little. Maybe you laugh a little. Maybe you cry a little. Maybe you disagree a little. You run the gamut of emotions with the author. You get a glimpse into their past, where you find places that maybe are less than glamorous, places that maybe the wider world was unaware of until the person disclosed it on their own terms, in their own words. And you see how that past shaped their present, bringing them to whatever moment in their life they find themselves at the point of publication.

Wondering what the title is and who the author is that I've been trying to make my way through for nearly three months now?

Untitled by Courtney.

I've been reading my own story.

In my own words. 

Page after page.

Volume after volume.

Year after year.

I've kept a journal since January 2, 1997. I was twelve at the time and in the sixth grade. I have nineteen full journals, twenty-one if you count the two bonus ones that I mailed back and forth with friends (those are tagged as volumes 2.1 and 4.1). All of them are stored between three waterproof and fireproof safes and are my most-prized possessions. I would be so grieved if something happened to them, and someone else would be grieved if they broke into my house, thinking they hit the jackpot with three safes, only to find them filled with paper and ink rather than jewels and money.

Ah, the resolutions of my twelve-year-old self.
Clearly my priorities were the welfare of my pets 
(Bud, Maggie, and the fish), and improving my hygiene.

There is at least one entry, typically far more, from every single year since 1997. Almost twenty-nine years of documenting my life. The longest period of time a single journal covers is six years and three months. The shortest one spans a mere four months. I'll never know for certain how many words total I've written but I wouldn't be surprised if it was in the vicinity of half a million words or more.

This isn't the first time I've re-read my own words. I've done it multiple times in the past, and the last go-round was in late 2021. But even since then, I've filled three more journals and working on my fourth. So, every time I do a read through, it is taking me longer and longer to do so. I decided the next time I do it, I'm simply going to read the most recent five years.

What was so astounding to me in this particular re-reading saga, however, was a theme I hadn't really picked up on before. Or if I did, I have no memory of it. (But this is a prime example of why I re-read them - God shows me something new every single time I re-read my journals, some new way he was faithful to me that maybe I had forgotten about and of which I needed to be reminded.) I would get through certain years, especially my high school and college years, and I would be horrified and convicted about how I spoke to myself through those pages. The words I documented reflected my own thoughts, which were primarily thoughts about all the things I "should" have done differently. 

I should have been more loving . . . 

I should have known how to do that . . . 

I should have said this instead of that . . . 

I should love God better . . . 

I should lead better . . . 

I should work harder . . . 

I should try harder . . . 

I should, I should, I should.

Mounds upon mounds of self-condemnation and self-loathing, seemingly chased by a constant sense of failure. It was never explicit, like saying, "I hate myself," but the meaning was there nonetheless, just masquerading as a girl and a woman trying to hold it all together, all the time. It both angered and grieved me all at once. My boss joked with me once, "Court, you've fired yourself a dozen times over from this job. Quit being so hard on yourself."

Even I got sick of reading my own thoughts after while. It all just felt gross, like, "Dang, girl, grant yourself some grace and space to not be perfect." The more I read, the harder it got to continue through the years.

But there came a point when I felt this thought, this conviction from the Holy Spirit, arrive deep in my gut, "This is how you talk to yourself every day." It was as if I was seeing my own self mirrored back to me in a way that I had perhaps always known about, but was reminded of in a startling and stark way.

Mirror, mirror, on the page.

We all face this dilemma, the lies we believe about ourselves. Maybe your lies sound different than mine, and maybe yours aren't documented between the college-lined pages of journals, but they are there in your heart and mind, nonetheless. You are a sinner just like me, and as such, we are all easy prey for the devil's schemes. Satan is the father of lies (John 8:44), after all, and the implications of living in a broken, sinful world, is that we are readily deceived by his accusations. 

So, when we look in this mirror, the question becomes not who is the fairest of us all, but will truth or lies win when the Accuser comes for us?

Mirror, mirror, on the page, will truth or lies win this war we wage?

John the Baptist, the prophet sent prior to Jesus to point people to Jesus, also points us to the way in which we answer this question for ourselves. The Jews and the Jewish leaders of the day kept asking him who he was. Was he Elijah? Was he the Prophet? Was he the Messiah? John denied all of those identities.

Finally they said, “Who are you? Give us an answer to take back to those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?”

John replied in the words of Isaiah the prophet, “I am the voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way for the Lord’” (John 1:22-23).

Did you notice what transpired there? They asked, "What do you say about your own identity?" They handed him their mirror and said, "Tell us who you are when you look into this mirror."  

John, instead, did the exact opposite. He picked up a different mirror and answered with the mirror of the Word of God, from the pages of Scripture, "John replied in the words of Isaiah . . ." It was the words of the Old Testament that told John who he was, what his identity was, what the truth was. The mirror the people handed him was worthless because it would have been built on lies and their own wishes of who they wanted John to be. The Word of God was the only place John knew the truth would rest.

It is the only place we can rest when we seek to determine who we are. It won't come from those around us. It won't come from our spouses, our kids, our friends, our employers, or our social media feed. It won't even come from within ourselves. We are far too easily deceived. When we find ourselves picking up the wrong mirror, one filled with lies, let us pick up the mirror that tells us the truth - always - the Word of God.

Mirror, mirror, on God's page, only your truth can win this war we wage.

May we all start looking in the right mirror, one filled with truth and not lies.

Fed by the Unexpected

Every morning around 7:30 a.m., they start descending, as if controlled by an air traffic control tower somewhere in the skies above, unseen by us earthlings. Like unruly, feathered teenagers, they poke and pester, sometimes awkwardly crash-landing on top of one another, as if they didn't even see that their intended landing spot was another member of their own species—an equally large, dark, gangly bird. They line my fence row so closely together that I can barely make out one from another. I need binoculars for my own backyard, it turns out.

I have inadvertently become a birdwatcher in recent months.

A vulture-watcher, to be precise.

I stand at my kitchen window every morning, eating breakfast and counting buzzards. If anybody wonders what I do with my life as a single, 40-year-old woman recovering from cancer treatment: I watch buzzards, and I count them. I also take lots of photos and videos of them, and I text updates to anybody who cares to know what the latest count is at Buzzard Landing, as I occasionally call it. Even if they don't care to know, I text them. If someone were to scroll through the photos on my phone, they would have serious concerns about the state of affairs in my life because I have a lot of photos and videos of a) buzzards, b) random body parts from this past year that show odd side effects like rashes, bruises, and wounds that won't heal, c) my head, showing the progression of my hair growth, and d) MRI scans that show a giant black hole in my brain. Once they see the MRIs, they might be like, "Ohhhh, well that explains a lot."

Most days there are about twenty to thirty vultures gathered. We topped out at forty-one one day and then forty-five a few days later, but those were just the ones I could see in my own yard. Who knows how many more were in the neighbors' yards to my right and left.

I don't know how my yard came to be the yard of choice for these ugly-as-sin birds. Has anyone else's yard in town become home to this "venue" of vultures? (I'm learning a lot about vultures these days, as you might guess.) There are no carcasses for them to feast upon, and it's not near the road for them to pick up roadkill of any kind. Although I have long wished they were birds of prey rather than scavengers, as I'd like them to take care of my groundhog situation. They just perch in some old, scraggly trees at the back of the property, occasionally fanning their wings out to dry. (I also learned they do not have water-repellent wings, so they basically have to hang them out to dry by fanning them out in the sun. Oh, the things I have Googled in the recent past about vultures.)

I used to count them every day but then gave up the habit because usually the answer is quite simply that there are a lot of them.

They tend to depart by 10:30 a.m. and are gone for the day. A few might return in the evening, but never in the quantities I see in the morning. 

But every morning, there they are, hanging out. And every morning, there I am, watching them hang out.

I have oddly grown fond of them, as they have become a symbol of God's provision in my life.

In the story of Elijah, found in 1 Kings 17, we find that Elijah the prophet has been sent by God to declare to Ahab, the king of Israel, judgment on the nation: no rain or dew for the next three years except at Elijah's word. From there, God sends Elijah to Kerith, a place whose precise location is unknown in modern times:

Then the word of the Lord came to Elijah: "Leave here, turn eastward and hide in the Kerith Ravine, east of the Jordan. You will drink from the brook, and I have directed the ravens to supply you with food there." So he did what the Lord had told him. He went to the Kerith Ravine, east of the Jordan, and stayed there. The ravens brought him bread and meat in the morning and bread and meat in the evening, and he drank from the brook (1 Kings 17:2-6). 

Ravens. 

Bringing provision. 

Every morning and every evening.

This unlikely creature provided precisely what Elijah needed to survive in a landscape headed for rock-hard ground in just a matter of time. Bible teacherPriscilla Shirer shared in her study Elijah how ravens were truly a surprising pick for the daily duty. They are restless, greedy, and indiscriminate creatures. They are not apt to stay in one place for long, and by Jewish law, they are deemed "unclean." 

Surely God could have chosen another, more majestic, 'clean,' bird for the job.

But he didn't. 

He chose the unexpected, the less desirable, the unwanted, the unlovely—the raven, of all things.

During one of the many mornings I have spent watching these silly birds recently, I wondered, "Perhaps these vultures are my ravens, daily reminders of God's provision for me?"

Perhaps these unattractive, awkward vultures are to serve as a reminder of God's provision for me—a reminder that every morning, every evening, and every moment in between, he is mindful of my needs. As I stand there eating breakfast (which, for the record, was not provided by the vultures), he is mindful of my needs. As I stand there washing dishes, he is mindful of my needs. As I work, he is mindful of my needs. As I sleep, he is mindful of my needs. As I am in the doctor's office, he is mindful of my needs. It's just that maybe those needs aren't met in a manner or form in which I expect because I'm too busy looking for eagles or hawks, different doctors or a different body.

Author Lysa Terkeurst offers up this reminder in her book Forgiving What You Can't Forget:

When Jesus taught us what to pray each day, his first request was for daily bread. But isn't it true that bread took on many different forms in the Bible? Sometimes it looks like a loaf from the oven (Leviticus 2:4), other times like manna from heaven (Deuteronomy 8:3), or best of all like Jesus who declared himself as the bread of life (John 6:35) . . . All three are God's perfect provision. But with our human eyes, we could probably only recognize the loaf as good and most fitting, and what a tragedy that would be. We may be crying because nothing looks like a loaf while we have manna all around us, or even better, Jesus himself (160-161).

Are there things in our lives where we are butting up against God and his timing or his provision because it's not arriving in the manner or form we expect it to? Are we so busy looking for some other form of God's provision than what is right in front of us, even if it is unlovely or unwanted? 

We go looking for a loaf when he sends us manna. 

We go looking for eagles when he sends us vultures.

We go looking for some other person when he sends us Jesus Christ himself.

Let us not dismiss whatever God has placed before us as provision, no matter what season of life we find ourselves. May he cover us with his feathers and hide us in the shadow of his wings (Psalm 36:7), even as he sends us vultures by the dozens. What a tragedy it would be to be blind to his perfect provisions.

576 Days Later

Five hundred seventy-six days ago, I had a seizure that sent me to the ER. Five hundred seventy-four days ago, I had a brain biopsy. Five hundred seventy-two days ago, I received a diagnosis of a rare type of brain cancer, an oligodendroglioma, WHO Grade II, with 1p/19q co-deletion. Since that first seizure, I have undergone a brain biopsy and a craniotomy, twelve cycles of chemotherapy, and thirty fractions of radiation. I have also attended numerous speech, physical, and occupational therapy appointments, probably an equal number of appointments with neurosurgeons, radiation oncologists, neuro-oncologists, neuropsychologists, and assorted other specialists I’ve had to pick up along the way, as well as a number of blood draws, MRIs, and CT scans. I have had a total of forty-one staples removed from my skull on two separate occasions. I didn’t drive a vehicle for eight months and was unable to live independently for ten months. As Kate Bowler said in her book No Cure for Being Human, “In times of tragedy, everyone is an accountant” (47). I have become a very good accountant in the last 576 days, although ‘tragedy’ feels a bit steep for my circumstances.

I have shaved my head multiple times. I have lost sleep. I have thrown up. I have lain on the bathroom floor, waiting to throw up. I have lost weight. I have had mysterious rashes that made me itch so badly I bruised my body up one side and down the other. I have struggled to eat. I have had nausea so severe that even the taste of water made me gag. I have swallowed innumerable pills.

I have plunged into the depths of despair, depression, grief, and sadness. I have wept at times until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I have had multiple seizures—at the gym, in the ER, in post-op, in the neurocritical care unit, and at home. I have wondered how I was going to make it to the next hour, let alone the next day or the next week. I have wondered if my left arm would ever work properly again and if I would ever make it back to the gym. I have felt as though I were walking through a metaphorical fire so hot it was going to burn me alive, my lungs gasping for air.

Five hundred seventy-six days ago, I was told I had brain cancer.

Five hundred seventy-six days later, I am told I still have brain cancer.

Those may seem like depressing statements to pair together, but I find them wildly miracle-filled and full of hope because of what has transpired deep in my heart and mind (quite literally) during those days in between those two statements. I will start by saying what I know has not happened.

Not once have I been bitter or angry with God, and not once have I asked him why. (For a woman whose favorite question in life is "why?" and who is extremely prone to bitterness, this transformation alone is perhaps a greater miracle than being cured of cancer.) I have never felt abandoned or forsaken. To quote Kate Bowler again, but from her book Everything Happens for a Reason, “At a time when I should have felt abandoned by God, I was not reduced to ashes. I felt like I was floating, floating on the love and prayers of all those who hummed around me like worker bees, bringing notes and flowers and warm socks and quilts embroidered with words of encouragement” (121).

I remember telling my boss when he came to visit me the day after I was admitted to the ER. I said very pragmatically, like I was giving an emotional shoulder shrug, “Boss, people get cancer every day. Why would I think I’m exempt from that reality?” I knew God didn’t owe me anything. I didn’t shake my fists at him. I didn’t beat down the door of heaven with my own battering ram, demanding answers. In the words of Max Lucado, “God owes no one anything. No reasons, no explanations. Nothing. If He gave them, we couldn’t understand them.” I didn’t stomp my foot and throw a tantrum. I knew him, and I knew he had a purpose and a plan. Was I remembering that when I was sobbing my way through rehab as the therapists handed me tissues like they were handing out candy at a parade? No. Was I remembering that when I was staring in the mirror as my dad shaved my head in the sterile, bright white light of the hospital bathroom? No. Was I remembering that when I was racked with seizures, asking whomever was in closest proximity to hold my left hand steady? No. But God kindly and gently brought the truth of his sovereignty to the forefront of my mind—in time. He is a God of process, after all.

On the night of my brain biopsy on February 5, just two days before the formal diagnosis, I texted my immediate family and a few close friends:

I don’t know what comes next, but I do know this beyond a shadow of a doubt:

Jesus is in my next. And that’s all I—or anyone else—needs to know. I put a stake in the ground a long time ago regarding what I believe to be true about God, and the presence or absence of suffering and bad things won’t change that. This song by Christy Nockels has long been my anthem: ‘Should I ever be surrounded by the fire or the flame, there’s a name I will remember, there’s a name I will proclaim. Let it be, let it be, let it be Jesus.’

If all this brings me closer to Jesus, then I’ll take it. For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.

I love each of you, and your prayers will not be in vain. He may choose to save me from the fire, and this mass may vanish in a miracle. Or he may not. Either way, I get Jesus.

Five hundred seventy-six days later, after all the chaos that comes with a cancer diagnosis, I still stand by those words.

I may still have cancer, but I also still have Jesus.

If I have not been bitter, angry, or forsaken, then I can also say, on the flip side, what has happened for the better. I have plunged into the depths of his goodness, kindness, and mercy. I have wept with gratitude at times until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I’ve had multiple encounters when I have been so aware of his presence—at my parents’ house, walking laps around their yard; in my car, reveling in the freedom of driving again; and at my house, washing dishes and marveling at the movement of my left hand working as it once did. I have seen him stop one of my seizures instantly when I cried out to him. I have walked through a fire so hot I thought it was going to burn me alive, but I have also seen a fourth in the fire with me, just as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego did in Daniel 3. I have marveled at his timing and how so many things happened at the precise moment to preserve and protect me and my family. I have had far more good days than bad days. In so many ways, my cancer experience has been anything but ‘typical.’ (Although, as my neuro-oncologist loves to say, a phrase which I came to loathe, “It’s different for everyone.” And let’s also remember this is not the suffering Olympics.)

I would never wish these past eighteen months on anyone, for they haven proven to include the very worst days of my life. But they have also included some of the sweetest days of my life. These past few months, in particular, have been incredibly precious to me. After the previous summer, which just felt like such a dogfight—going to rehab, starting chemo, and then going to radiation every day—this summer has felt nothing like that. This summer has instead felt so redemptive and restful, filled with peace and stillness, as if I have been hidden in the shadow of his wing or by the brook at Cherith, as Elijah was in 1 Kings 17. It has been the exact opposite of everything that was last summer.

And it has been these days that I wouldn’t trade for anything. Kate shared again in Everything Happens for a Reason how terrified she began to feel at the prospect of losing that floating feeling. I understand that terror myself now. She began asking herself and others what she would do when that feeling was gone. They generally responded that the feeling would, in fact, go, and there would be no formula for retrieving it. “But they offered me this small bit of certainty, and I clung to it. When the feelings recede like the tides, they said, they will leave an imprint. I would somehow be marked by the presence of an unbidden God” (122).

I may still have brain cancer after all those sleepless nights and innumerable tears, but I can say unequivocally that a million little miracles have happened in these last 576 days, and I have been deeply marked by the presence of an unbidden God.

While I don’t know what the next 576 days hold, I do know this: 

Jesus is in my next, and by His grace, I will continue to say, “Let it be Jesus.”

For however many days there are yet to my life, may God get his glory out of me.

PS: Remember this song? It was the first song that played during my first MRI. And then today, it was the last song that played during my last (for now) MRI. You're obviously not supposed to move when you have an MRI, but I desperately wanted to reach for my already snotty nose. I heard the first notes of the song come on, and I could immediately feel the tears dripping down my cheeks into the ear plugs.

Functional Update

Whew, gang. We made it! And I do mean ‘we’! At the start of all this when we were seeking a second opinion at Ohio State, the neuro-oncologist there said that he can always tell which patients will have the best outcomes by whether someone comes with them to the appointments or if they come alone. In so many ways, you all have been with me to every appointment and my outcomes are better for it. You have encouraged me in so many ways with your comments and prayers. “[You] came in like priests and mirrored back to me the face of Jesus. When [you] sat beside me . . . my own suffering began to feel like it had revealed to me the suffering of others, a world of those who, like me, are stumbling around in the debris of dreams they thought they were entitled to and plans they didn’t realize they had made” (Everything Happens, 121).

The process is by no means over, as I will have cancer for the rest of my life, short of an act of God. And I do feel this need to toss out this caution: Chemotherapy is over, but that most certainly does not mean that I am “healthy,” or that I can go back to life as I once knew it. I can never go back. But finishing chemo treatment is one heck of a milestone to mark. I usually am not one to lack for words, but I simply cannot express how grateful I have been for the large and mighty army of prayer warriors that have surrounded me, sent me gifts (it felt like Christmas there for awhile!), cards, texts, and emails. I have saved every card anyone has ever sent me.

Right side is from February 3, 2024,
left side is from September 2, 2025.

The last few rounds of chemo were largely uneventful, thankfully. I had an MRI earlier today where we compared today's scan to my last one in June and it continues to show the tumor is stable. But yowza, when we looked at from eighteen months ago in February 2024 to now, it is striking to me how much tumor (anything in bright white) was removed via surgery (the big black hole) and then through radiation and chemo. The measurements always need to be taken with a grain of salt, as images can vary from one MRI machine to another, and the placement of the measuring points are not always going to be spot on.

All in all, it's a given that I am glad this process is over. The prognosis for my type of cancer is fairly positive, although as I have stated in a post from last year, I have never directly asked the question, "What is the prognosis?" It ultimately doesn't matter to me what the answer is.

So what's next?

As far as treatment itself, it's obviously over. We will now have MRIs roughly every three months to start with and then eventually every six- to nine-months. It will be years, however, before we drop down to even one time a year. I will continue to be under the care of the neuro-oncologist and the seizure specialist over the long term. I remain seizure-free, and I was actually able to moderately lower one of the seizure meds under the watch of the seizure specialist. 

As for writing and providing updates, here’s my game plan moving forward. I’m going to keep writing reflective pieces as I am compelled no matter what, so that’s not going to change. I’m more than sixteen years into writing on this site, so cancer or no cancer, it’s baked into my life at this point. 

However, I will no longer post any specific health updates except when I have routine scans.

For those who want the convenience of email notifications whenever I publish something and haven’t yet subscribed, you can do so at this link. I will not use your email for any other purpose than to send notifications on new posts.

Again, what an encouragement this faithful little community of readers has been to me since my first cancer-related post back on February 13, 2024. Thank you will never be enough, but thank you anyway. You have indeed been with me to every appointment and have been like priests mirroring back to me the face of Jesus.

General Update: Into the Homestretch

I've noted this below in the main text, but for those who skim and may miss this, I've chosen for this to be my last post until I am completely done with chemotherapy, likely sometime in September. I'm not Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, but I do want to manage expectations by giving everyone a heads up.

Over a year ago when I first learned I would have roughly fourteen months of chemotherapy to get through, I truly felt like a year was going to get wiped off the calendar of my life, that somehow it was just all going to get sucked into a black hole of some kind, never to be seen again or remembered. Remember how those first couple years with COVID we all had this weird sense of time? Our worlds had been uprooted and time somehow both simultaneously chewed us up and spit us out, leaving us disoriented, and yet at the same time, time still carried on.

The final three cycles of chemotherapy are stretching out before me. Someone asked the other day if I felt like the time had gone by fast or if it had felt like an eternity. I had to think about it. In some ways it's flown by, but it also hasn't felt like it's been moving at a total snail's pace either. It's just - been - this weird sense of time I've been living in for the last fifteen months, this vortex of vagueness. 

I am eager to reach the end of treatment and have a life that doesn't exist in twenty-eight day increments. When we were children, we measured life by school years and summer breaks. In college, we measured life by semesters and spring breaks. And then in adulthood, it's just this gaping openness with no distinct markers, other than perhaps by jobs, children's birthdays, or anniversaries. But as someone who has cancer, I have marked my existence in this past year by cycles: 

• Cycle 1: "Cycle 12 is sooooo far away." 
• Cycle 4: "Yuck." 
• Cycle 6: "Halfway there!"
• Cycle 8: "Absolute misery. Good Lord Almighty have mercy." 
• Cycle 9: "Best one yet. Only three more to go!"

I am eager to not be hyperaware of how much water I'm drinking in the course of a single day or keeping a daily log of symptoms. I am eager to keep making plans. 

My most recent MRI was earlier this week, and it showed that the tumor is stable. I met with the neuro-onc this afternoon, and I told him much of what I had reported in my last post: This has been by far the best cycle. I feel like I've been bursting at the seams with energy and productivity. I've been cranking through my to do lists, and it's felt good to have such a long stretch of days where I have felt consistently well. I had an ah-ha! moment a couple weeks back when I realized the anti-nausea patch I wore through all five of the medication days in cycle eight was actually what made me feel so miserable. For a supposed anti-nausea medication, it made my nausea worse. I tried it again at the beginning of this cycle and within an hour of wearing it, I felt side effects settling in. I lasted all of eight hours wearing it. Shortly after I took it off, all of the side effects dissipated.

As I look to this final homestretch of cycles, I've given a lot of thought to what I want them to look like. I have felt a strong prompting from the Holy Spirit that I need to pull back from some things, while leaning hard into others. 

I want to continue to focus on overall health so that when I do reach the end of chemo, I'm already in a place to rebound quickly from any lingering side effects. I've got a few appointments set up with a functional medicine dietician and a functional medicine nurse to sort out some optional testing I chose to do, which traditional medicine wouldn't normally consider.

I'm going to continue to focus on physical strength and recovery. I'm still going to the gym once per week and will do so until the end of treatment, at minimum. From there, I'll assess whether I'm in a place where I can handle going back to the group training sessions. 

I've got some home projects I want to get in order, including painting some rooms and sprucing up my yard.

There's an assortment of other tasks on the to-do list, and in light of that, I will not be posting anymore updates to the blog until I am completely done with chemo, which will likely be sometime in September. Consider it a form of hibernation, only in summer instead of winter. As a good friend noted, though, it will not be a time of isolation, but it will be a time for separation from a few things, including these blog updates. If you've been along for the entire ride, then you'll remember I took a break last August after I finished radiation and was on break from chemo. Think of it like that, only longer. Soon enough the fat bears in Katmai will be making an appearance and they can keep you entertained. Around late June, they usually start surfacing, and you can keep tabs on Explore.org's webcams for when that goes live.

This doesn't mean you can't contact me or reach out to me. It just means the public-facing side of this kerfuffle called cancer is an area where I'm hitting pause for a time. So, if you have my personal contact info anyway, don't feel like you can reach out via text, phone call, email, or snail mail.

I personally am praying a lot here lately that God would grant me eyes that see, ears that ear, a mind that trust, and a heart that obeys. The Secretariat prayer from last June's update is still in my mind, as odd as that one may seem. I want to get stronger and faster through each of these remaining cycles. I welcome your prayers on those matters, as well. I'm also praying there would be no side effects in the remaining cycles and that I would manage my time well.

Until the fall, may the bears be with you.

Mementos and Memories

I'm not much of a collector, at least not in terms of material possessions. I had a friend tell me once that if people were to break into my place to rob it, they'd think someone had beat them to the job. Mind you, at the time he said this, I had gone from living in a 350 sq. ft. studio apartment to roughly a 1,200 sq. ft. condo. My parents thought I had been living in a shoebox in the first instance, and I thought I was living in a mansion in the second. I basically had no furnishings when I moved into the condo because of the shoebox I had come from. I slept with my mattress on the floor for I don't know how many months until I finally bought a bedroom suite, and I borrowed a couple of folding chairs from my parents for a number of months, too, while I sorted out what to do about kitchen furniture.

It's not that I didn't want to spend the money or anything. I just simply didn't care. Dealing with that version of adulting is a little soul-sucking and requires a lot of energy for me. I rather dread shopping and browsing around to find a good deal or looking through styles. Things like Pinterest and Etsy make my eyes glaze over, or at the very least make me feel very overwhelmed. It took me seven months to work up the energy to finally buy a couch when I first moved into the condo. Even in my current house, which I bought three years ago, I just now bought a combo bookcase/filing cabinet for files I've been carting around in a copy paper box for probably four years and books I've had stacked up on the floor for at least a year.

About the closest I have come to collecting material things are smashed pennies and ticket stubs. Both are compact, easily portable, and the items themselves clearly mark a moment or location, as there is identifying information inherent in their nature. Meaning when you look at any one of my ticket stubs you can clearly see things like a date, time, or location. Also, in the scrapbook in which I keep them (where they are all in order by day, month, and year), I typically write off to the side who I was with when I experienced the event. I have nearly every ticket from any sort of concert, recital, movie, etc. I've been to since 1998. Yes, you read that right. 1-9-9-8. If someone really wanted to, they could probably cobble together a narrative timeline of my life just based on that ticket scrapbook alone.

And the smashed pennies? That collection was inadvertently started by my grandparents. For as long as I could remember, they had this sort of 'junk pile' in the middle of their kitchen table filled with knick knacks, mail, an assortment of pens, a napkin holder, and usually a half-empty sleeve of Saltine crackers my grandfather snacked on along with peanut butter, and then a scattering of crumbs around it from Sunday family gatherings. My vague memory tells me this is where I found my first smashed penny somewhere loose in this pile of 'junk.'

It's from a trip my grandparents took ultimately to Australia, but with a stop along the way in Hawaii. They had occasion to visit Pearl Harbor, and the pressed penny from the visit shows an image of the USS Arizona Memorial. They picked up that little coin in 1978, not knowing they'd have a granddaughter someday who would have over 150 similar coins, marking her own travels, from coast to coast and even ones from Russia and New Zealand.*

Then 2024 hit, the 'year of cancer,' as I sometimes call it. Obviously there was -  and is - so much more to last year than merely cancer, but it nevertheless is the defining marker. I acquired precisely two ticket stubs and zero smashed pennies last year. 

However, as last year passed, I unintentionally found myself setting aside little trinkets, little mementos, to mark various moments and memories. A single staple from my brain biopsy (weird, I know). A golf ball I found on one of my morning walks when I was still living at my parents'. There's a story behind that golf ball which I won't get into right now in the interest of time and space. It’s nothing dramatic, but it’s of value to my family. Some of my favorite cards and letters friends sent to me that carried me through hard days. Some of the papers of brain exercises I had to do in rehab. My wristband from the first day of being admitted to the hospital, and I was told I had a large mass on my brain. 

For every tangible item, there are also some intangible items I collected via photographs. I took photos of odd details in my physical surroundings at the time and recently printed a stack to add to my growing collection of tangible items. There's a photo of the light fixture in the room I stayed while at my parents', taken from the angle of how I saw it while lying in bed. I stared at that light fixture for what seemed like hours some days, usually seeing it through tears, wondering how life had taken such a hard left. There's also a photo of this rather large, old osage orange tree at the side of their property, a photo I took on one of my early morning walks when I had a ton of energy from the steroids during radiation. The sunlight is streaming perfectly through the branches and you can see just this wisp of a sunbeam reaching down from its branches.

Memories marked by mementos, a little collection that has grown over the last fifteen months and continues to do so, all tucked into a wooden box, which is part of the collection itself, as it was part of a care package. There are a good deal of moments and memories from last year I'd like to forget. The moment when my dad had to shave my head. The moment when I kept staring at the grid sheet in speech therapy and could not figure out how to solve the task, no matter how hard my brain tried to sort it out. The moments when I couldn't type or get my left hand to work. Every moment of every seizure. The moment when the occupational therapist came into my hospital room and asked me to simply raise my left hand at the wrist and nothing happened. The moment when I texted my friend and told her I didn't know how I was going to make it.

But there's also a good deal I'd like to remember. The moment when I hugged my mom and neither one of us could stop laughing. The moment when I went to a Ben Rector concert with my friend Jill, one of the two ticket stubs I have from last year. The moments when getting mail felt a little like Christmas, a seemingly never-ending stream of cards and care packages. The moment when my co-workers and I successfully pulled off our online conference of nearly 2,000 people and the public was none the wiser for the hellacious year we'd all managed to survive. The moment when I moved back into my house, living independently again, almost a year sooner than we anticipated.

All those tangible items are tucked away in that wooden box, but the box is nearly full and I'll need to upgrade to another size. Because I know the story isn't over and there are moments yet to come that I will want to add to the collection.

And if my 'keep making plans' healthcare system has anything to say about it all, someday I will add more ticket stubs and more smashed pennies to my collections. I look forward to those days.

*And no, please do not make or send me any smashed pennies when you see a machine. I have a small handful from locations I haven't been to that friends have given to me over the years, but I generally prefer to have them from places I personally have been to.

_______________
Health Updates

There was a moment in this latest chemo cycle when I had to pick up the bottle the meds came in to make sure I was shipped and taking the right drugs, I was feeling that amazing. This was BY FAR the best cycle I've had, at least as far as my memory can recall (they all start to run together after awhile). It was like the good Lord himself reached down and flipped a switch. After cycle number eight was so miserable, I really was bracing for number nine. At my last neuro-onc appointment, we decided to lower the dose of chemo this month, see if that helped things. I think that change and several other changes resulted in the improvements. I ended up having minimal nausea and no vomiting. My appetite was normal and I had no problems drinking fluids. I maybe napped a little more, but by and large, had really good energy. It really was stunning how well I felt. I rebounded days sooner than I normally do. You better believe I spent a lot of time thanking God for his kindness.

I'm still savoring the changes the new anti-seizure medication have induced, continuing to improve my ability to function and move through the day. Just doing common, ordinary things, like being able to schedule appointments and run errands in the mornings while also gaining evening hours, too, makes me feel like I have discovered a whole new world. 

My next scan is June 3 to assess again what the tumor looks like. After that, I will start cycle ten, which means I only have three more cycles to go. If the schedule plays out as intended, I should start the last cycle sometime in August and then actually finish in September.

Definitely keep praying that my body would tolerate the drugs with no side effects and that the next scan would show that the tumor has shrunk (I'll also go for vanished!). 

Again, thank you to everyone who continually reaches out and checks on me. I'm still so grateful for the intentionality of each of those gestures.

My Dear Betsy

I love the occasional hidden surprise found tucked in the pages of a library book, and I don't mean the literary kind where you think, "Well, I did not see that coming." I mean the tangible, hold-it-in-your-hands kind. I have found money ($20 once!), bookmarks, personal notes, and other things of the like.

But perhaps the one I found sometime last year was the most timely and the most meaningful of the bunch. I don't remember book in which I found it, or even when precisely. I just know it tumbled out as I paged through the book. (I unashamedly admit that I will often read the last pages of fiction books to see how the ending goes before I start.) The cover was a glowing yellow sunset with a walking bridge over a small creek. The words, "Hope in Him," were scrawled across the top in cursive. 

The words and the image had already roped me in, but the true treasure was what I found on the inside, a needed a reminder in the turmoil, as if the card had been written for me personally and not the stranger it was originally sent to and had accidentally left it behind. The top half of the card included a Bible verse from Hebrews 10:35 written in a femininely-penned cursive in blue ink: "Don't throw away your confidence, which has a great reward. For you have need of endurance, so that you may do the will of God, and receive what is promised."

Beneath that, on the bottom half, was one part personal note, one part printed text of the greeting card. 

"My dear Betsy" was written in the same cursive blue ink of the Bible verse, then switched over to the formal printed portion, which said, "When things go wrong and all seems lost, hold fast to the promises in God's word. God is faithful."

But what I really loved were the personal additions to the formal print, where the sender underlined all seems lost and added to God is faithful to you, always. ♡ Bonnie

I have no idea who Betsy and Bonnie were or are, but Bonnie's words to Betsy were really Bonnie's words to Courtney. 

So, to my dear Betsy's out there who are reading this and are feeling like everything has gone wrong, may you find this unexpected surprise tucked between the emails in your inbox, and may you remember that when all seems lost, God is faithful to you, always. ♡ Courtney

General Update: What Does One Do With Curls?

My body went and made a liar out of me. In my last update on April 13, I said, "I started round number eight of chemo this past week, and yesterday was the last dose. I had far less nausea this time, having implemented some changes in how to handle it. I haven't been as miserable as the last two cycles have been, but I'm still not out of the clear just yet. I usually give it another 5-7 days after the last dose before I really come up for air." 

I made it sound like it wasn't that bad, but the key word there was yet. 

Judas Priest and a popsicle stick. 

That little window of "5-7 days after" was by far the worst days I've had during chemo yet. I felt absolutely awful. I had vision problems, was sick to my stomach multiple times, had terrible, terrible nausea, and slept a lot. I think I just left the curtains pulled most of the time, living like Isaiah 9:2 conveys, a person 'walking in the land of darkness.' Only I had not yet seen a 'great light,' so to speak. I rotated between the recliner, the couch, and the bed. 

I met with the neuro onc earlier this week and after I explained how bad this round was, he said I had two options: One, I could take a week break before this next cycle, or two, I could forge ahead with the next round but at a slightly lower dose. I opted for option two. I had already mapped out my month around chemo starting at a certain time, and I didn't want to derail that. So, I'll start round number nine (only three more after this!) next week, and I am praying that it is not as bad as this last one. 

Despite my chemo misery, perhaps my 'great light' in all this is my new anti-seizure medication. What a game-changer. All that lobbying and pressing to get it have paid off in spades. I made some rough calculations and based on the hours I've gained back from my morning snoozes and the evening hours of not going to bed so early, I now have an additional twenty hours in my week. TWENTY HOURS. 2-0. Twenty. It is wild to me what a significant difference it has made in my life to not get so drowsy every time I took my medication in the mornings and evenings. I'm feeling like Princess Jasmine in Aladdin, a whole new world has arrived on my doorstep minus the magic carpet and a handsome fella, unfortunately.

Thanks, radiation and chemo.

I know one thing I'm having to use those twenty hours for is trying to figure out what to do with curly/wavy hair that has volume and body. I went forty years of my life with hair that was stick straight and had zero volume or body. I think my mother spent most of my childhood lamenting the fact that my long, blonde hair just simply would.not.hold.curl, no matter how much hair spray she used or how long we left those pink sponge curlers in overnight. Acts of futility and insanity. Just ain't happening. 

And now, I get out of the shower, look in the mirror, and think to myself every day, "What is this mess? And what does one do with it?" I still haven't fully decided what long-term look I am aiming for, but these curls may dictate a lot. 

Generally speaking, the good days are really good, and the bad days are really bad. On the good days, I have lots of energy, I'm productive, I eat well, I'm connecting with friends and family, and generally going about life like normal. 

But those bad days are really bad. I go into hibernation mode and don't want to surface for a long time. I struggle to eat, it's tough to drink water because even that makes me want to gag, and would prefer to fall off the face of the earth for that stretch of time. 

I'm praying this lower dose will help the cause. Thanks to everyone who continues to keep in touch and doesn't take offense when it takes me a chunk of time to respond to texts or calls. It's definitely challenging trying to figure out how to pace my time in the good days between cycles. My month basically gets shrunk from 30 days to 20 days and I think the last couple of cycles, I've overcommitted on those good days in between. Regardless, I'm so grateful for everyone's continued support and prayers, good days and bad.

The Thief of Pain

I actually wrote a very similar version of this piece exactly eleven years ago this week. At that time, I had a herniated disc that was absolutely horrendous in terms of pain. Up to that point, I had never experienced that kind of pain in my life. 

As we look to Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday this weekend, it seemed appropriate to dust it off and freshen it up a bit, not only for myself, but hopefully as a reminder for others.

–––––––––––

It's amazing how fast the walls close in when you're in pain, whether mentally, emotionally, or physically. Whatever form it may be, it can be all-consuming when you've been gutted by grief and loss.

This time one year ago ushered in some of the very darkest, most miserable days of my life.  

Grief, loss, and pain were consuming thoughts.  

I would wake up and think about them.   

I would sit at the kitchen table and think about them. 

I would brush my teeth and think about them.

I would go to bed at night and think about them.  

I would walk and think about them.  

I would breathe and think about them.  

Every waking moment was spent thinking about myself, this hurt, and how to escape it.  I lost track of the number of mental and emotional breakdowns I had, which usually resulted in me in a fetal position on my temporary bed at my parents' house, sobbing, barely able to breathe.

I just wanted it all to go away, telling myself it must be some sort of bad dream.

Ultimately, all I did was think about myself for days on end.

I forgot that a world around me existed or that anyone else around me might be in worse shape.  I did nothing but live in my own little bubble, inside my own little head, unable to see past the end of my own nose and the yawning vortex stretched out before me that had become my life practically overnight.

Looking back on those days and months, I now keep thinking about Jesus, hanging on the cross, in sheer agony and suffering, in the kind of pain that makes mine look like a bucketful of sunshine and rainbows.  And the one fact I simply cannot escape is this:

Even in the face of his impending mortal death, even in his deepest moment of torture and agony, Jesus still noticed the thief next to him.  

Consider this: Think about the worst pain you ever have been in - mentally, emotionally, or physically.  Now multiply that times a hundred. My guess is you didn't care about the rest of the world at that moment. 

But then there's Jesus. 

Pure selflessness even while in agony.  Spikes driven into his hands, spear drawn through his side, a crown of thorns mashed onto his head, blood freely pouring out from seven places.  His back looks like hamburger meat.  His lungs are failing because he can't lift himself up enough to get a breath.  And somehow - somehow - he still manages to notice the man crucified next to him, as noted in Luke 23:39-43:

One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at [Jesus]: "Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!" But the other criminal rebuked him.  "Don't you fear God," he said, "since you are under the same sentence?  We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve.  But this man has done nothing wrong."    

Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."  

Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." 

Here's what I find so startling in that moment: 

Jesus noticed the thief.

In that moment, when in his humanity he could have easily ignored either man hanging beside him, when he could have easily said, "Just get me off this cross and make it all go away," he turns to the thief and says, "I notice you.  This is the very reason why I came - was to notice you.  You are not forgotten.  And today you will be with me in paradise."

How many moments have I missed along the way in the midst of all this pain?  How often have I let it eclipse all thought of others around me and their own sorrowing and suffering, or even their joy and gladness?  Here in this season of Lent and Passover, here in this season of giving up in order to gain, here in this season of turning our eyes to the cross - how often did I miss the person next to me?

Jesus knew even on the cross, even in his worst pain, that the pain he was enduring was never about him.

It was about the thief next to him.

And the miracle of miracles is that Jesus still notices the thief and the criminal in me today, the girl who wants to rob the world in order to escape her own pain, the girl who is far too often so very self-absorbed.  

And he still turns to me and says, "Today, today, I notice you. I notice you in your grief, loss, and pain."

I want to be like Jesus.  

I want to turn and notice the world around me, no matter my own pain, no matter my own heartache.  

I don't want to get so myopic that all I do is focus on what's right in front me - and forget that this pain is temporary.  I don't want to forget that someday I'll get to trade it all in, and stand in the light of God's glory, right next to the thief Jesus noticed on the cross next to him over 2,000 years ago.

"Therefore we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."  2 Corinthians 4:16-18

Praise God Sunday's coming.

Haunted by a Question

I’m not much of a dreamer. Five- and ten-year plans don’t exist in my head. They maybe did when I was in college, and I was highly ambitious about my equestrian career. When that whole trajectory changed (for the better, I might add), dreaming about any sort of long-term plan just didn’t make sense in my mind anymore. At that point, just on the leading edge of my 20s, I had already experienced what happens when we make plans: God makes better ones. So, I didn’t really bother myself with dreams or dreaming after that. I wanted to live open-handed and trust that whatever came next was for the best.

Some years ago, I came across one of those conversation-starter question, designed to help launch or deepen social interactions, whether in a group of people or one-on-one: “What do you want to be celebrating one year from now?” 

When I first read that question, someone might as well have hit a kill switch to my brain because I couldn’t think of a single event or goal in response to the question. I have zero imagination for such things, whether big or small. Maybe someone would have said, “One year from now, I want to be celebrating a promotion,” or “I want to be celebrating the birth of a baby,” or “I want to be celebrating my engagement,” etc. Some of you could answer that question without batting an eye, as you have a goal, a clear vision of some kind of what you want life to look like. Or at the very least a hazy vision, an underlying ambition, even if it’s not set against the backdrop of a calendar.

Me? [insert awkwardly long blank stare.]

I’ve never been one who envisioned being married by a certain age, having kids by a certain age, climbing some sort of career progression in a particular fashion, etc. Anything about long-term goals instantly created a loss of signal, like a snowy TV screen. In a culture where extroverts are prized and side hustles are the name of the game, anything less than a seemingly performative, self-promoting nature gets you left in the dust. I was left in the dust long ago - dreamless, aimless, social media-less, and seemingly ambitious-less.

The fact that I couldn’t ever be imaginative enough or enough of a dreamer to answer that question nagged me for years, almost haunted by it in my sleeping and definitely in my waking hours, creating this deeply-rooted insecurity that I was coasting through life because I couldn't ever answer that question. “What is wrong with me, and why do I struggle to answer such a seemingly innocuous question? I felt this deep need to conjure a response to this question, something clear and crisp, firm and tangible. It’s not a particularly complicated question, after all. What do you want to be true of your life one year from now? Sounds easy enough, right?

Crickets every time for me.

And then I found myself lying in a hospital bed on April 20, 2024, and answers to that question began pouring out. In my hazy memory of the moment, my family had left for the day, so no one else was around. The hospital room was quiet and dark, the only light pouring in was from the hallway and maybe the TV. By that point I had been moved out of the neuro critical care unit, and I was attached to far fewer wires and tubes. I was still struggling to text so I honestly don’t remember how I physically went about documenting the list. 

An early prototype

But on that Saturday, April 20, 2024, I finally answered the question that had haunted me for years. My answers had nothing to do with getting married, having kids, getting a promotion, paying off debt, starting my own business, losing weight, or whatever else ends up on lists of dreams, all of which are good dreams. 

The things I wanted to celebrate in a year didn’t even include “be cancer-free.” No, I had a very low bar for my dreams, my hoped-for celebrations. Mine were common and ordinary, yet I might as well have added a final bullet point that said, “Build your own rocket ship to the moon,” as all of the things I wanted to celebrate in a year felt like they were on the same playing field as getting to the moon, so far out of reach. I laid in that wildly uncomfortable hospital bed with thirty-one staples down my head, not daring to conjure up five- and ten-year plans because that felt absolutely terrifying when I couldn’t even fathom life past the next hour, the next day, or the next week. Even one year from then felt incredibly risky. I opened a new note in my phone and I haven't touched it since so that the timestamp would be preserved as proof.

What did I want to celebrate one year from April 20, 2024?

I want to celebrate

• Not being in a hospital
• Being able to type and have full use of my left arm
• Being back at the gym
• Being back in my own house
• Driving again
• Getting a tattoo
• Having a full head of hair
• 
  

Even now, I weep writing and re-reading that list, as the memories of those days hold so much pain, so much grief, and so much loss. I hadn't been able to answer that haunting question for years, and then when I do? 

I was wishing for the simplest of things, like having hair and being able to type.

So, here we are, one year later, and I am celebrating almost everything on that list:

I was discharged from the hospital on April 22, 2024, and have not been back (as an admitted patient) since.

I am able to type and have full use of my left arm. There isn't a thing in the course of daily living that I find I can't do because of my arm or my fingers not working properly.

I started back to the gym in February of this year.

I moved out of my parents' and back to my own house last November.

I was cleared by my doctors to drive back roads last September and on the highway in November.

(The tattoo situation hasn't happened yet, but it's definitely on the post-chemo list of dreams. I've got a temporary stand-in for now thanks to my niece's inspiration of Bic's BodyMark temporary tattoo markers. How it looks in the photo above is basically what I want the permanent one to look like, using the words "Let it be Jesus," the song I laid claim to when everything started crashing down.) 

After I lost one side of my hair to radiation and we shaved it last July, my hair was finally long enough here this February to get it cut for the first time in over a year. I do, indeed, have a full head of hair now.

And just like that, an unfathomable, out of reach, list of dreams has become reality since I wrote that note. 

And it wasn't because I 'manifested' anything, 'set my intentions,' or put these things 'out into the universe.' That list wasn't about thinking positive thoughts and willing them into existence. 

No, the answers became reality because of a gracious, kind, and sovereign God who made them so. This wasn't about me manifesting anything. I have said from the day of my diagnosis that this was going to be a Jesus story, not a cancer story. And the achievement of those desires, were certainly not because of my righteousness, but rather his great mercy (Daniel 9:18).

It was - and still is - a Jesus story. A story of a God who has done far more than I could ever ask, answer for myself, or imagine.

The last bullet point, a blank one, was unintentional, but for whatever reason, I left it at the time. 

Maybe it was for all that was yet to come, the moments I hadn't yet experienced, but would want to be celebrating all the same:

• Being seizure-free.
• Remaining employed and working throughout this past year.
• Making it through rehab appointments without crying.
• Washing my own dishes with my left hand.
• Having enough gumption to advocate for myself to get the medical care I needed.
• Reading a book with no vision problems, being able to see all letters and all words.
• Writing 52 'devotions' per my dad's challenge.

I haven't really given much thought to what I want to celebrate one year from now. At least the thought of hours, days, and weeks feel less risky, but the years still do at times. So, for now, we'll keep the list of dreams simple:

•  
•  
•  
• 
  

"Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen" (Ephesians 3:20).

____________________________

Health Update

The self-advocacy victory pose.

I finally have in my possession the new anti-seizure medication! It was an instant change from the time I took my first dose - the drowsiness vanished! Now, I'm not suddenly unleashing myself on the world and going hog-wild with not being sucked in by a mid-morning medication-induced nap. However, this does now allow me to work consistently and once the day gets rolling, it stays rolling. I am filled with gratitude in light of this change, and it affirmed my persistence in lobbying as hard as I did in sorting through the mess of the healthcare system.

Then in the midst of all that, I got a toe infection. A toe infection, of all things. It's been a chronic problem child over the years, having had the nail removed twice already. The oncologist had me move quickly to get my hands on an antibiotic so that a small problem didn't become a big problem. Chemo would have been delayed if the infection hadn't gotten under control, but the antibiotic cleared it out and the podiatrist cleared me to forge ahead as scheduled. 

I also had a neuropsychological evaluation. The results? I still have a brain and one that happens to work fairly well. I'm glad the experts could confirm. I had requested the evaluation awhile back (their wait list is incredibly long), just so I could have baseline data I could refer to in the future, if need be. Ideally, it would have been done before the craniotomy last April, but I didn't even know such a thing existed then and likely wouldn't have been able to get in anyway. It's a lengthy test, taking about three hours to complete. My brain was a little fried after needing to burn so much cognitive energy, but I made it. It was primarily a fact-finding mission, meant to establish a baseline of data. So, I won't be doing it again anytime in the near future.

I started round number eight of chemo this past week, and yesterday was the last dose. I had far less nausea this time, having implemented some changes in how to handle it. I haven't been as miserable as the last two cycles have been, but I'm still not out of the clear just yet. I usually give it another 5-7 days after the last dose before I really come up for air.

This week marks one year since my craniotomy (April 16), or as somebody said in a support group that I attended one time, "crani-versary." This to me is the true anniversary of when everything started, not the February anniversary of the diagnosis. This is when the deepest parts of grief and chaos were ushered in. I honestly don't know how I made it out of bed every day, surrounded mentally and emotionally by so much darkness. But God in his faithfulness and grace hoisted me out of bed, moment by moment. I am forever changed by his kindness.

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Bonus!

Unrelated but related, I have been listening to Rita Springer's newest album Fed by Ravens, and there is not a song on that album that I don't feel deep, deep in my soul. If you're looking for some new tunes, or if you feel like you're in your own wilderness season, give this song a listen, and then listen to the entire album. I've never heard another album like this in my life that is so visceral and raw, an honest depiction of the wilderness seasons of life for a Christ-follower.