Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
Humph. Yesterday, I was supposed to begin my second treatment of chemo, but apparently, my body disagrees and my doctors are heeding to it's stubborn indignation and postponing my healing for another week...I'm peeved to say the least. My white blood cell count should stay between the range of 1000-3000, and my results spoke of a measly 200. If chemo was injected into my body with that low of a count.... bad news bears. So it seems you have found a way to outsmart chemo and overstay your welcome further, mister. Now, due to this flared-up tantrum you have caused, I am to have white blood cells injected into my body these next few days to bring my count up to a normal range; however, I am finding each injection heeds a warning of distress to my lungs and searing pain in my lower-back... perfect. Your schemes are indeed frightening, Mr. Hodgkin's, but fear propels me into the presence of my God and my Defender is even more livid by the evil you provoke. I am praying Psalm 35:1, "Contend, O Lord, with those who contend with me; fight against those who fight against me!" You don't believe He has heard me? My friend, may I gently lead you then to Psalm 18:6, "In my distress I called upon the Lord; to my God I cried for help. From His temple He heard my voice, and my cry to Him reached His ears." Just a word of caution, that's all...
Let's back up for our friends. Probably best to rewind back to this past Friday, in fact. My so-called ally, chemo, can be very damaging to my veins and tissue; so even though she was first introduced through IV, the doctors are weary to continue in this manner. Thus...the port. So there I was, making my way once again to United Hospital with a charge to open up my body to yet another houseguest... an implantation device? Ew. Sir, have you ever seen the Matrix? I have this scene forever engrained in my mind where Keanu Reeves thrashes around in his pod filled with who knows what, and my eyes always zero in on these grotesque ports bulging out from under his skin. After witnessing a port from my unconcealed (literally) chemo classmate, I realized I would soon be a walking Keanu Reeves. A dream, for sure.
Sighing, I glided through the blood tests, again convinced the doctor I was not with child (thanks to the eighth pregnancy test I have taken in the past 2 weeks), and came head-to-head with the fateful gown. I glared at the nurse, who of course saw no issue in the matter, and disrobed. Eh. Side-note: I must declare I was born in the wrong era. I read today how women in the early 1900's felt exposed by a show of their ankles... their ankles. I'll move on, sir, but don't you just think "precious" when you hear of such a thing? I certainly do- just little babies, my baby kindred spirits. You know what made it all worth it though, sir? I now own another pair of hospital socks... which I obviously wore throughout the rest of the weekend. They're like fuzzy socks, just not as obnoxious, and the grips on the bottoms I swear keep my balance. I'm sure there's scientific proof out there somewhere...
The nurse looked at me apologetically and said, "You got stuck with the nurse that is technologically challenged." I tried to reassure her with a sweet smile and an, "Oh, I'm sure you're not that bad!" However, after an hour of updating my information with one finger punching the keyboard, I came to this evident conclusion: okay, it is THAT bad. Thankfully, before impatience could get the best of me, the surgeon walked in to introduce himself. Very congenial man, but it was his assistant that made quite the impression. For this man brushed back the curtain, crossed the room over to my bedside, laid his hand firmly on my arm, bent down inches from my face (what is it with doctors and personal space?), looked straight into my eyes and said, "I will take care of you." Somewhat taken aback by his forthright approach, I blinked back and said, "I appreciate that." I knew he had won me over, though, when the next words that almost slipped out were: "Are you interested in being my husband?" Don't roll your eyes at me, Mr. Hodgkin's. Any man that's intentional to seek me out and boldly declares his protection over me is a man that causes my heart to beat faster... even if he is 40, has bug eyes and wild hair, and wears his pants a bit too short. Okay, okay, I'm being facetious, but you have to admit, I had you going there for a second.
In all seriousness though, this man was a God-send. I don't say that often, but this man exuded comfort like nothing I've ever experienced. He watched me closely to tend to my reactions, spoke words of encouragement throughout the entire visit, and made me laugh at his good-natured jokes. There are many times I wonder if the nurses and doctors see me as a human being or just another body to medicate, and it was plain to see this man went beyond acknowledging me as a human by speaking into and caring for any feelings and fears I was experiencing. Even the assistant nurses raised their eyebrows at him like this was something they never thought to do. Well, kudos to this man! I praised God again and again for his evident concern and his resolved regard towards me.
As I was wheeled down the halls and towards the operating room, I realized this will never get easier. What do I mean by that, sir? Well, the surgeries, the blood tests, the hospital visits... I don't believe it will ever get easier on my heart. As I laid on that rolling hospital bed, I looked up at the moving white ceiling and my eyes welled up with tears. I felt so cold, so fearful of what comes next, so disappointed by you and what I have to go through for healing. As I was pushed down the next hallway, peace swept over me. Disappointed, I see. Well, sir, my God never leaves me when these feelings threaten to drown me. No, He's a God that guards my heart and mind. How did He come to my rescue in that moment? The words of Psalm 91:11 were so clear in my mind, as if the words were painted on the ceiling themselves, "For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways." It was then I realized the truth, even though circumstances screamed otherwise, that He and His army of angels were guarding me in that hall, on my hospital bed, in that surgery, and even forevermore. Mr. Hodgkin's, my God is a strong shield about me and will use these moments to remind me of who He is. Man, how do people do this without Him? I shudder to think of the fear they may be experiencing and pray, for their sake, they respond to His care soon.
They transferred me to an operating table, propped my knees up with a pillow, and then asked: "Will you slip your right arm out of your gown, so we are free to operate on your chest?" Realizing how much I would have to be uncovered, I blushed a deep scarlet and moved to do as they asked. As I did, the male assistant turned his head away to give me my last bit of privacy. Sure, I would soon be sedated, numbed, and exposed during the operation, but this man allowed me to maintain modesty as long as I was able. I understand doctors deal with bodies everyday and THEY don't think twice, but again, this man picked up on the fact that I DO think twice. He has no idea how much I deeply respect him. I could say more, but moving on: I knew the meds were kicking in as my body relaxed, my vision blurred, and yes, I felt pure bliss frolicking in la-la land. The operation went without a hitch, and before I knew it, I was back in endoscopy waking up to a lunch menu placed before me, the options limitless. What did that mean? Chicken stir-fry, baked potato, Cobb salad, etc. When I placed my order, the nurse looked at me obviously surprised and said, "Wow, you still have quite the appetite!" Must they all comment? Apparently.
So, Mr. Hodgkin's, the past few days have thrown me for a loop. Just when I'm feeling like everything's smooth sailing and working out as planned, you seem to throw a wrench into things. Here is where I will rejoice. I've had a few issues breathing (not why I'm celebrating), so I went in for an impromptu CAT scan to check for blood clots and to see how my pulmonary veins are faring. The results came back regular (praise God) and a bit of good news followed: they see a slight reduction in the tumors you've produced. You may scoff at the word "slight," but my oncologist wasn't even expecting to see a noticeable reduction in my 2-month scan, let alone anything observable a week and a half after treatment began. You may have enjoyed calling the shots the past couple of months, but you must see we are regaining lost turf and will soon reclaim it all. Even though I'm bummed to push treatment out another week, I am looking forward to another week of normalcy, which means another week with high energy and loud laughter (Just Dance 3... I'm ready for another round). Oh, and I'm back on Vicodin again. Yet another reason to make merry. Until we meet again...
Yours Truly,
Heid
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Oh, let the side-effects begin.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
I'm grateful to say a week has gone by since chemo invaded my body. Is it going by fast for you, sir? I cannot say it has for me (you and that brash girl seem to be having quite the ball playing pranks on my little body), but am relieved 1 treatment is done, 5 more to go. Concerning chemo... can I be candid with you, Mr. Hodgkin's? I know it is unwise to confide in you, my enemy, especially when it concerns my doctor's tactical plans.... but I can't help myself. You know what is a bit unnerving about her? My oncologist has admitted to me just how secret of a weapon chemo actually is... even to him. You see, still to this day, no one knows how chemo actually does the job. Oh, they know she kills cancer, but they haven't pinpointed the process she takes to get there. So the only plan is to pump the chemo into me, watch how my body reacts, and then respond to the side-effects once they happen. Very comforting, don't you agree? I refuse to call this an experiment... but it does sound an awful lot like trial and error. Oh, modern-day medicine. How advanced you seem to be... yet not really.
How did my body fare, you ask? You won't be privy to every detail, but there was one note-worthy event to write home about. As Thursday evening rolled around, something I can only describe as a small fire began to ignite in my mouth. The flame was small at first as I only started to wince when I tried to drink water or eat chocolate pudding (you know what? I had ice cream too). But the burn grew more intense with each passing hour, and by the time I was ready to fall asleep, something as simple and natural as swallowing my own saliva would cause me to scream. I would finally doze off when my mouth went dry only to wake in tears 15 minutes later as soon as the saliva would naturally rebuild. I will spare you any more details, but let's just say, it was a painful night, my friend.
I called the doctor immediately the next morning and they invited me in for a follow-up. Well, how kind. As I sat waiting in a patient room, I held my face in my hands as tears streamed down my fingers and soaked into the cuffs of my sweatshirt. The nurse practitioner walked in, and it took everything in me to lift my dazed eyes towards her, my breathing heavy. Her cheerful smile immediately plunged and she said, "Hunny, we are going to kill this thing and I promise you are going to be okay." Since I could barely talk, she asked many yes/no questions, and we sadly discovered something in the process... my nurse had given me the chemo medication forgetting to instruct me to chomp on ice (too caught up in chatting. Girls will be girls). Seems so minute, right? Here's the thing: the coolness of the ice diverts the meds from my mouth. However, being totally exposed, the meds spread full-blown into my mouth and attacked my central nerves in the process. She reassured me this will never again be the case; that I should never experience such pain with chemo. Until then, vicodin would carry me through the weekend. Relief + Vicodin = I embrace drugs.
And then, the icing on the cake, she looked at me and said, "When I first walked in and saw the red hair, the freckles, and the fair skin, I thought, 'Oh, no!'" When I gave her a confused, somewhat offended look, she said, "Your type is 10x more sensitive in general, but especially to anything we doctors give you." Aha! This explains so much of my life. (Just how sensitive is my skin? I remember, before volleyball tournaments, my friend would simply scratch my number on my bicep and my skin would react so strongly that the redness served as a tattoo for the rest of the game. Obvious case and point: If you've got it, flaunt it.) "You're also young, which means your arteries are fresh and things are just that much more painful than when you're old." Hmm, thank you for that... any other strikes against me?
Mr. Hodgkin's, even in all of this, I have no cause to worry. You have yet to understand the ways of my God. I alluded to this last correspondence, but let me see if I can share a bit more. See, all throughout this beautiful book called the Bible, my God takes those that have the cards stacked against them and displays His awesome power through their singular faith in Him. Take my hero, David, and his well-known story. There were brave, well-trained soldiers that were afraid to fight an opposing giant named Goliath. David was this young, shepherd boy that volunteered to fight because he had faith, not in himself mind you, but in the strength and faithfulness of our God. Do you not know the end of the story? He defeated Goliath with a mere slingshot and a stone. Too cliche for you?
Okay, how about Moses? He was chosen to command Pharaoh to free God's people after 400 years of slavery under the Egyptian's reign. Sir, he was an old man that had a speech-impediment, and furthermore, he lacked self-confidence to do the job. You can only imagine why the Pharaoh refused him... he didn't have many influencing strengths. Do you see who influences though? God worked through all of his insufficiencies, and in the end, Moses led His people right out of Egypt. So, yes. There may be many strikes against me, but when have we ever needed our ducks in a row for God to move? My God, who is greater and stronger than any other, is always at work and has never needed circumstances to tip in His people's favor before He leads them into victory. So freckles and all, my God is not hindered nor encumbered. For let His power be shown all the more, mister.
All in all, today is the first day since chemo I have felt back to normal- full of energy and joy. I've pranced around the office, created a choreographed dance to Justin Bieber's "One Time," made plans to go snow tubing tomorrow, and plan on staying up to the wee hours of the morn reading and drawing.... all in a day's work. It's good to know I'm still here, spirited and somewhat out of control. Hmm, yes, I will embrace every second of this painless day. Praise Jesus again and again, sir.
Yours Truly,
Heid
I'm grateful to say a week has gone by since chemo invaded my body. Is it going by fast for you, sir? I cannot say it has for me (you and that brash girl seem to be having quite the ball playing pranks on my little body), but am relieved 1 treatment is done, 5 more to go. Concerning chemo... can I be candid with you, Mr. Hodgkin's? I know it is unwise to confide in you, my enemy, especially when it concerns my doctor's tactical plans.... but I can't help myself. You know what is a bit unnerving about her? My oncologist has admitted to me just how secret of a weapon chemo actually is... even to him. You see, still to this day, no one knows how chemo actually does the job. Oh, they know she kills cancer, but they haven't pinpointed the process she takes to get there. So the only plan is to pump the chemo into me, watch how my body reacts, and then respond to the side-effects once they happen. Very comforting, don't you agree? I refuse to call this an experiment... but it does sound an awful lot like trial and error. Oh, modern-day medicine. How advanced you seem to be... yet not really.
How did my body fare, you ask? You won't be privy to every detail, but there was one note-worthy event to write home about. As Thursday evening rolled around, something I can only describe as a small fire began to ignite in my mouth. The flame was small at first as I only started to wince when I tried to drink water or eat chocolate pudding (you know what? I had ice cream too). But the burn grew more intense with each passing hour, and by the time I was ready to fall asleep, something as simple and natural as swallowing my own saliva would cause me to scream. I would finally doze off when my mouth went dry only to wake in tears 15 minutes later as soon as the saliva would naturally rebuild. I will spare you any more details, but let's just say, it was a painful night, my friend.
I called the doctor immediately the next morning and they invited me in for a follow-up. Well, how kind. As I sat waiting in a patient room, I held my face in my hands as tears streamed down my fingers and soaked into the cuffs of my sweatshirt. The nurse practitioner walked in, and it took everything in me to lift my dazed eyes towards her, my breathing heavy. Her cheerful smile immediately plunged and she said, "Hunny, we are going to kill this thing and I promise you are going to be okay." Since I could barely talk, she asked many yes/no questions, and we sadly discovered something in the process... my nurse had given me the chemo medication forgetting to instruct me to chomp on ice (too caught up in chatting. Girls will be girls). Seems so minute, right? Here's the thing: the coolness of the ice diverts the meds from my mouth. However, being totally exposed, the meds spread full-blown into my mouth and attacked my central nerves in the process. She reassured me this will never again be the case; that I should never experience such pain with chemo. Until then, vicodin would carry me through the weekend. Relief + Vicodin = I embrace drugs.
And then, the icing on the cake, she looked at me and said, "When I first walked in and saw the red hair, the freckles, and the fair skin, I thought, 'Oh, no!'" When I gave her a confused, somewhat offended look, she said, "Your type is 10x more sensitive in general, but especially to anything we doctors give you." Aha! This explains so much of my life. (Just how sensitive is my skin? I remember, before volleyball tournaments, my friend would simply scratch my number on my bicep and my skin would react so strongly that the redness served as a tattoo for the rest of the game. Obvious case and point: If you've got it, flaunt it.) "You're also young, which means your arteries are fresh and things are just that much more painful than when you're old." Hmm, thank you for that... any other strikes against me?
Mr. Hodgkin's, even in all of this, I have no cause to worry. You have yet to understand the ways of my God. I alluded to this last correspondence, but let me see if I can share a bit more. See, all throughout this beautiful book called the Bible, my God takes those that have the cards stacked against them and displays His awesome power through their singular faith in Him. Take my hero, David, and his well-known story. There were brave, well-trained soldiers that were afraid to fight an opposing giant named Goliath. David was this young, shepherd boy that volunteered to fight because he had faith, not in himself mind you, but in the strength and faithfulness of our God. Do you not know the end of the story? He defeated Goliath with a mere slingshot and a stone. Too cliche for you?
Okay, how about Moses? He was chosen to command Pharaoh to free God's people after 400 years of slavery under the Egyptian's reign. Sir, he was an old man that had a speech-impediment, and furthermore, he lacked self-confidence to do the job. You can only imagine why the Pharaoh refused him... he didn't have many influencing strengths. Do you see who influences though? God worked through all of his insufficiencies, and in the end, Moses led His people right out of Egypt. So, yes. There may be many strikes against me, but when have we ever needed our ducks in a row for God to move? My God, who is greater and stronger than any other, is always at work and has never needed circumstances to tip in His people's favor before He leads them into victory. So freckles and all, my God is not hindered nor encumbered. For let His power be shown all the more, mister.
All in all, today is the first day since chemo I have felt back to normal- full of energy and joy. I've pranced around the office, created a choreographed dance to Justin Bieber's "One Time," made plans to go snow tubing tomorrow, and plan on staying up to the wee hours of the morn reading and drawing.... all in a day's work. It's good to know I'm still here, spirited and somewhat out of control. Hmm, yes, I will embrace every second of this painless day. Praise Jesus again and again, sir.
Yours Truly,
Heid
Friday, February 17, 2012
Oh, a new "friend" called chemo.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
At this point, the line is very blurry between who is for me and who is against me. Oh, it is obvious that you, sir, are against me, but there are definite times when I swear you have swayed chemo to join your side. I have been reassured by my oncologist and the nurses that my chemotherapy treatment is my so called "friend," but in an attempt to defend me, she seems to be ruthlessly attacking anything else in my body that gets in her way. I'm not sure this crazed lunatic can be trusted, but there seems to be little choice in the matter. Chemo will have to suffice. I will have to make do. Sigh. She better behave.
Here's a little tidbit about me, sir. I'm a person that does not need to know everything that could possibly go wrong, which is why I have asked and studied little about you. I will deal with things as they come, deal with the issues you bring in my life as you do; every case is different and why stir up anxiety in prepping for each worst case scenario? Are you following? However, before I began any treatment, I was charged to sit on something called a "chemo class." I wince at the title... still playing the ignorant card that I'm going in for something called "medicine"...not for something as socially faux pas as "chemo." Even so, I must introduce our new friend since she seems to be quite the two-way player, and her tirades may demand a considerable amount of the spotlight in the next few months to come. Eh. Stupid girl.
To begin, this "chemo class" was a bit of a tease. We were escorted into a comfy meeting room with plush black leather chairs we were invited to sink into. The nurses asked if we wanted any beverages, and as I sipped a glass of water, I relaxed into the chair with the comfort that no needle or IV would come near my body in that next hour. Never thought that would be a milestone, but phew. As the movie began and we spun our chairs to face the screen, I soon realized this was no entertainment special... for this video walked us through every potential, negative side-effect from chemotherapy reinforced by the testimonies of others. I first tried to deflect the scary information by singing a song in my head, staring out the window, tapping my foot... but all were useless. My next attempt was to read a pamphlet that was set before me... but it read word-for-word what the video was saying. It was clear: there was no way out. So there I sat, taking it all in, and freaked out by everything chemo could possibly do to me. Oh, how ignorance was bliss...(keyword: was).
After the video wrapped up, a nurse came back in the room and asked if we had any thoughts we wanted to debrief. Traumatized, I could barely blink back at her. Then, this 65-year-old woman, a fellow chemo-class attender (still wincing), looked right at me and said, "Do you have a port yet? Do you want to see mine?" Without waiting for me to respond, she stands up, pulls down her pants (which made little sense because a port is located above your chest), pulls up her shirt, and moves her undergarments around trying to reveal the so called port. I mean, if I blush when I'M exposed, you can only imagine my face when this woman shamelessly stood there for all to see. Welcome to chemo class, peeps.
With that experience under my belt, I was apparently equipped and ready to go. So on that Monday, February 13th, I sat back in a recliner that was positioned in a long room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a ban of turkeys parading around just outside. I can't help but take in my surroundings, and in doing so, I saw 15 other people hooked up to IV's, their shoes kicked off, reading books, talking with others,... or staring. To be more specific, staring at me. Given the situation, and if I was on the other side, I would probably look too. Because here's the thing (that I have mentioned a few times before, but must again share): those people reclining in their patient chairs had their daughters or sons seated beside them in the visitor chairs. I must admit, it is quite humbling to walk past the eyes of these individuals and take the patient chair myself as my mom instead takes the visitor seat next to me. I can only imagine their thoughts, and although I'm sure are kind and full of pity, pity is not something a Stoltz readily embraces. Rather, it is something I avoid at all costs. I'm fine with being different, but not like this. At this point, all I thought was I just want to be normal. I just want to be a normal 23-year-old girl who's spending her day off in a coffee shop, chatting with friends, and their biggest worry and topic of conversation is when we will all get married. But nope. Not today at least. Today's reality is I'm a 23-year-old girl who has to put some of her dreams on hold and be strong enough to deal with the likes of you.
Oops, though... secret: I am so not strong. I'm the girl who avoided chores and yardwork because I was too weak to hold up a rake or push a lawn mower. I'm the girl who asked my coach if I could lift less weights because my thighs were screaming after work-outs. Heck, I'm the girl that can produce tears within 1-2 seconds before pain even touches my body. So there you have it, Mr. Hodgkin's; you have targeted a baby.
Thankfully, for me, this is not the end-all, sir. Because although I may have a low pain tolerance, my spirit is tenacious and unyielding. My fortitude is fierce and resolute. Do you know why? Obviously it is to no credit of my own. Surely, you must now see. Ha, if I were left to fend for myself, my tears would have already paved the way to hopelessness and my heart would have likely surrendered to defeat. I am but a young woman, even a child in my nurse's eyes... but this is where I boast. I'm not relying on my own strength, for that would be painfully pitiful to any observer... but have instead entrusted myself to the resilience of Another. Check it: "For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose heart is loyal to Him" 2 Chronicles 16:9. Even more simply put, "The Lord is the strength of His people" Psalm 28:8. I know this may sound counter-cultural to you, Mr. Hodgkin's, but the truth is when I am weak, then I am strong; for my God says, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9). Sure, that's hard to swallow when hardship is surrounding on all sides, but again... I choose to trust in His character. He will uphold me with His righteous right hand, sir.
Hmm, it is apparent that our new friend, chemo, does not know how to treat a lady what with all the pain she has caused me especially in the last two days. But there is plenty of time to converse about this. Right now, I am going to give into the tug of vicodin and sleep. Oh, what a sweet invitation...
Yours Truly,
Heid
At this point, the line is very blurry between who is for me and who is against me. Oh, it is obvious that you, sir, are against me, but there are definite times when I swear you have swayed chemo to join your side. I have been reassured by my oncologist and the nurses that my chemotherapy treatment is my so called "friend," but in an attempt to defend me, she seems to be ruthlessly attacking anything else in my body that gets in her way. I'm not sure this crazed lunatic can be trusted, but there seems to be little choice in the matter. Chemo will have to suffice. I will have to make do. Sigh. She better behave.
Here's a little tidbit about me, sir. I'm a person that does not need to know everything that could possibly go wrong, which is why I have asked and studied little about you. I will deal with things as they come, deal with the issues you bring in my life as you do; every case is different and why stir up anxiety in prepping for each worst case scenario? Are you following? However, before I began any treatment, I was charged to sit on something called a "chemo class." I wince at the title... still playing the ignorant card that I'm going in for something called "medicine"...not for something as socially faux pas as "chemo." Even so, I must introduce our new friend since she seems to be quite the two-way player, and her tirades may demand a considerable amount of the spotlight in the next few months to come. Eh. Stupid girl.
To begin, this "chemo class" was a bit of a tease. We were escorted into a comfy meeting room with plush black leather chairs we were invited to sink into. The nurses asked if we wanted any beverages, and as I sipped a glass of water, I relaxed into the chair with the comfort that no needle or IV would come near my body in that next hour. Never thought that would be a milestone, but phew. As the movie began and we spun our chairs to face the screen, I soon realized this was no entertainment special... for this video walked us through every potential, negative side-effect from chemotherapy reinforced by the testimonies of others. I first tried to deflect the scary information by singing a song in my head, staring out the window, tapping my foot... but all were useless. My next attempt was to read a pamphlet that was set before me... but it read word-for-word what the video was saying. It was clear: there was no way out. So there I sat, taking it all in, and freaked out by everything chemo could possibly do to me. Oh, how ignorance was bliss...(keyword: was).
After the video wrapped up, a nurse came back in the room and asked if we had any thoughts we wanted to debrief. Traumatized, I could barely blink back at her. Then, this 65-year-old woman, a fellow chemo-class attender (still wincing), looked right at me and said, "Do you have a port yet? Do you want to see mine?" Without waiting for me to respond, she stands up, pulls down her pants (which made little sense because a port is located above your chest), pulls up her shirt, and moves her undergarments around trying to reveal the so called port. I mean, if I blush when I'M exposed, you can only imagine my face when this woman shamelessly stood there for all to see. Welcome to chemo class, peeps.
With that experience under my belt, I was apparently equipped and ready to go. So on that Monday, February 13th, I sat back in a recliner that was positioned in a long room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a ban of turkeys parading around just outside. I can't help but take in my surroundings, and in doing so, I saw 15 other people hooked up to IV's, their shoes kicked off, reading books, talking with others,... or staring. To be more specific, staring at me. Given the situation, and if I was on the other side, I would probably look too. Because here's the thing (that I have mentioned a few times before, but must again share): those people reclining in their patient chairs had their daughters or sons seated beside them in the visitor chairs. I must admit, it is quite humbling to walk past the eyes of these individuals and take the patient chair myself as my mom instead takes the visitor seat next to me. I can only imagine their thoughts, and although I'm sure are kind and full of pity, pity is not something a Stoltz readily embraces. Rather, it is something I avoid at all costs. I'm fine with being different, but not like this. At this point, all I thought was I just want to be normal. I just want to be a normal 23-year-old girl who's spending her day off in a coffee shop, chatting with friends, and their biggest worry and topic of conversation is when we will all get married. But nope. Not today at least. Today's reality is I'm a 23-year-old girl who has to put some of her dreams on hold and be strong enough to deal with the likes of you.
Oops, though... secret: I am so not strong. I'm the girl who avoided chores and yardwork because I was too weak to hold up a rake or push a lawn mower. I'm the girl who asked my coach if I could lift less weights because my thighs were screaming after work-outs. Heck, I'm the girl that can produce tears within 1-2 seconds before pain even touches my body. So there you have it, Mr. Hodgkin's; you have targeted a baby.
Thankfully, for me, this is not the end-all, sir. Because although I may have a low pain tolerance, my spirit is tenacious and unyielding. My fortitude is fierce and resolute. Do you know why? Obviously it is to no credit of my own. Surely, you must now see. Ha, if I were left to fend for myself, my tears would have already paved the way to hopelessness and my heart would have likely surrendered to defeat. I am but a young woman, even a child in my nurse's eyes... but this is where I boast. I'm not relying on my own strength, for that would be painfully pitiful to any observer... but have instead entrusted myself to the resilience of Another. Check it: "For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose heart is loyal to Him" 2 Chronicles 16:9. Even more simply put, "The Lord is the strength of His people" Psalm 28:8. I know this may sound counter-cultural to you, Mr. Hodgkin's, but the truth is when I am weak, then I am strong; for my God says, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9). Sure, that's hard to swallow when hardship is surrounding on all sides, but again... I choose to trust in His character. He will uphold me with His righteous right hand, sir.
Hmm, it is apparent that our new friend, chemo, does not know how to treat a lady what with all the pain she has caused me especially in the last two days. But there is plenty of time to converse about this. Right now, I am going to give into the tug of vicodin and sleep. Oh, what a sweet invitation...
Yours Truly,
Heid
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Oh, the deeds.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
Tomorrow I start chemo... Gulp. I don't think I fully grasped this reality until just today when I was asked countless times, "So when does treatment start for you?" When I would answer, "Actually Monday," to this question of the day, it started to sink in: Whoa... That's tomorrow. What a bizarre place in life I have found myself in. I was one of those people who thought, "Nah, that could never happen to me. There's no history of cancer whatsoever in my family." What I have found about you though, sir, is you are quite random. Meaning the cause of you cannot be boiled down to simply genetics. Even today, there are only theories, mere guesses, why you choose the people you do. On one hand, it relieves my mind from wondering, "Where did I go wrong? How could I have avoided this?" On the other hand, I can't help but roll my eyes at the poor luck I have that I would be the one randomly selected by you. It would be easy to inquire, "Why?" (and I am not below posing such a question nor seeking the answer), but there are moments in our lives where we are called to take heart and to take faith. The beauty yet the hardship in these moments are that they cause us to trust in the One who does know why and to trust in the goodness of His character. Because sometimes, my God takes me on adventures and sometimes, they are quite terrifying in which I have no other option but to hold fast in trust.... but I will remember the deeds of the past, because, Mr. Hodgkin's, this is where confidence builds and hope remains - the proof of His faithfulness.
Yes, remember the deeds. Tonight, with the scary prospect of tomorrow, I am on a hunt to do just that- to choose to remember the goodness He has blessed me with in the past. As I walked into my bedroom tonight, I paused to look at the pictures decorating the surrounding walls and shelves. Hmmm, good memories: this is where the quest starts. My eyes first spot the picture of my brother and I leaning on our sister with big grins on our faces as we hold our shovels in one hand and poke at her with our free hand as a blizzard dances around us in our parent's driveway. Standing next to this photo is another 4x6 of me kissing the cheek of my new sis-law the glorious day she became a Stoltz. Then, there's the classic picture of my mission trip to Tijuana as a couple of us holding a jump rope played with the kids while the rest of the team was busy building a retaining wall in the background (I tend to shy away from manual labor... but I mean, prancing around with kids or enduring physical pain? Obvious answer). There's the precious moment captured when my entire extended family gathered around our dining room table at the Annual Stoltz Brunch, and with our heads bowed together, I see us praying to the God we each know deeply. Oh, I can't forget the shot taken my freshmen year of college when I am crouched next to my volleyball coach's dog that we kidnapped in the middle of the night (so maybe I am feisty at all times of the day) and spray-painted him with the lovely purple that screams Eagles (oops, now that I think about it, I'm not quite sure if my coach knew exactly who on the team participated. Welp, confession time - I was part of the guilty party! To my defense, I think he thoroughly enjoyed the adventure; his barks possibly even invited it?). Of course, there's that night when my high school girls and I shoved the heaviest, nastiest leather couch into the back of my Jeep to covertly drop off at one of the guys' house.... for the fourth time yet that summer...which, in the end of the whole brigade, costed him $75 to dump (Did you know it was us, Grant? So sorry, I'll move past the subject before I divulge the other pranks we gleefully committed throughout those years). Rewind further, there's a picture of my dad with his arm around little me as I show off a bold purple cast I got from an aggressive slide into 3rd base during your average game of family baseball. If I can share one more, sir, the picture of my beautiful mom holding me on her chest as we both laid down for a nap when I was but months introduced into this world (so proud to be their's).
I have lived a joyful life in these past 23 years, Mr. Hodgkin's, and the photos on the wall are but a quick glimpse into that. Yes, I have seen calamity woven throughout these same years, but more importantly, I have witnessed the Lord's goodness gush through each trial marking a dominant theme. See, you may not view me or my life as important, but I am and my life is to my God. I don't think you understand the magnitude of His love for me and my life; in fact, the magnitude of His love for any other life that believes in Him. This perdurable love moved this man, Jesus, to willfully give His life on a cross and took every mistake and sin of mine with Him. As He hung there, He knew I was His and He knew what would come from His suffering...and the result is what makes this bearable. By defeating death and rising again soon after, He gave me the choice to live a life worthy with purpose and meaning in His Name. A life of sin already paid for. A life now filled with His victorious, freeing presence and His sure promises. Man, how could I not choose Him, sir? As you can see, He has a habit of taking something so devastating and using it for something of glory and praise. I would hate you to miss the parallel I'm trying to make...
Okay, okay, I will return back to our earlier conversation. Yes, tomorrow is coming - no matter how much I loathe the thought and regardless of my wish to blissfully jump back into the carefree past all over again. But, here is what charges me forward and what arms me with strength: if my God is for me and with me, then what could stand against? He is greater, stronger, higher than any other. Even you, mister... Chris Tomlin says so. Well, probably more importantly, Romans 8:31 says so. Nonetheless, my God's Word and the testimony of many others claims that against you, Mr. Hodgkin's. Quiver, my friend, for it is the only natural response of those working against my God.
Yours Truly,
Heid
Tomorrow I start chemo... Gulp. I don't think I fully grasped this reality until just today when I was asked countless times, "So when does treatment start for you?" When I would answer, "Actually Monday," to this question of the day, it started to sink in: Whoa... That's tomorrow. What a bizarre place in life I have found myself in. I was one of those people who thought, "Nah, that could never happen to me. There's no history of cancer whatsoever in my family." What I have found about you though, sir, is you are quite random. Meaning the cause of you cannot be boiled down to simply genetics. Even today, there are only theories, mere guesses, why you choose the people you do. On one hand, it relieves my mind from wondering, "Where did I go wrong? How could I have avoided this?" On the other hand, I can't help but roll my eyes at the poor luck I have that I would be the one randomly selected by you. It would be easy to inquire, "Why?" (and I am not below posing such a question nor seeking the answer), but there are moments in our lives where we are called to take heart and to take faith. The beauty yet the hardship in these moments are that they cause us to trust in the One who does know why and to trust in the goodness of His character. Because sometimes, my God takes me on adventures and sometimes, they are quite terrifying in which I have no other option but to hold fast in trust.... but I will remember the deeds of the past, because, Mr. Hodgkin's, this is where confidence builds and hope remains - the proof of His faithfulness.
Yes, remember the deeds. Tonight, with the scary prospect of tomorrow, I am on a hunt to do just that- to choose to remember the goodness He has blessed me with in the past. As I walked into my bedroom tonight, I paused to look at the pictures decorating the surrounding walls and shelves. Hmmm, good memories: this is where the quest starts. My eyes first spot the picture of my brother and I leaning on our sister with big grins on our faces as we hold our shovels in one hand and poke at her with our free hand as a blizzard dances around us in our parent's driveway. Standing next to this photo is another 4x6 of me kissing the cheek of my new sis-law the glorious day she became a Stoltz. Then, there's the classic picture of my mission trip to Tijuana as a couple of us holding a jump rope played with the kids while the rest of the team was busy building a retaining wall in the background (I tend to shy away from manual labor... but I mean, prancing around with kids or enduring physical pain? Obvious answer). There's the precious moment captured when my entire extended family gathered around our dining room table at the Annual Stoltz Brunch, and with our heads bowed together, I see us praying to the God we each know deeply. Oh, I can't forget the shot taken my freshmen year of college when I am crouched next to my volleyball coach's dog that we kidnapped in the middle of the night (so maybe I am feisty at all times of the day) and spray-painted him with the lovely purple that screams Eagles (oops, now that I think about it, I'm not quite sure if my coach knew exactly who on the team participated. Welp, confession time - I was part of the guilty party! To my defense, I think he thoroughly enjoyed the adventure; his barks possibly even invited it?). Of course, there's that night when my high school girls and I shoved the heaviest, nastiest leather couch into the back of my Jeep to covertly drop off at one of the guys' house.... for the fourth time yet that summer...which, in the end of the whole brigade, costed him $75 to dump (Did you know it was us, Grant? So sorry, I'll move past the subject before I divulge the other pranks we gleefully committed throughout those years). Rewind further, there's a picture of my dad with his arm around little me as I show off a bold purple cast I got from an aggressive slide into 3rd base during your average game of family baseball. If I can share one more, sir, the picture of my beautiful mom holding me on her chest as we both laid down for a nap when I was but months introduced into this world (so proud to be their's).
I have lived a joyful life in these past 23 years, Mr. Hodgkin's, and the photos on the wall are but a quick glimpse into that. Yes, I have seen calamity woven throughout these same years, but more importantly, I have witnessed the Lord's goodness gush through each trial marking a dominant theme. See, you may not view me or my life as important, but I am and my life is to my God. I don't think you understand the magnitude of His love for me and my life; in fact, the magnitude of His love for any other life that believes in Him. This perdurable love moved this man, Jesus, to willfully give His life on a cross and took every mistake and sin of mine with Him. As He hung there, He knew I was His and He knew what would come from His suffering...and the result is what makes this bearable. By defeating death and rising again soon after, He gave me the choice to live a life worthy with purpose and meaning in His Name. A life of sin already paid for. A life now filled with His victorious, freeing presence and His sure promises. Man, how could I not choose Him, sir? As you can see, He has a habit of taking something so devastating and using it for something of glory and praise. I would hate you to miss the parallel I'm trying to make...
Okay, okay, I will return back to our earlier conversation. Yes, tomorrow is coming - no matter how much I loathe the thought and regardless of my wish to blissfully jump back into the carefree past all over again. But, here is what charges me forward and what arms me with strength: if my God is for me and with me, then what could stand against? He is greater, stronger, higher than any other. Even you, mister... Chris Tomlin says so. Well, probably more importantly, Romans 8:31 says so. Nonetheless, my God's Word and the testimony of many others claims that against you, Mr. Hodgkin's. Quiver, my friend, for it is the only natural response of those working against my God.
Yours Truly,
Heid
Friday, February 10, 2012
Oh, the results.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
You seemed to have been pretty proud of yourself this past week what with all the pain you caused and the scary prospect of the future you gave me. But today, I can't help but delight in wiping that smug grin off your face. Let me start off by asking you a question, sir: have you ever heard the verse Psalm 30:5? It simply says this, "Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning." As you may or may not know, there has been plenty of weeping. Don't act quite so surprised, Mr. Hodgkin's, since your attacks aim not to please. The unknown of the future and what you could possibly do to me would drive me to my knees and my soul would cry out the words of Psalm 69:3, "I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched. My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God." But do you remember my resolve to take God up on His Word? This past week, in the stillness of the night, I picked up my sharpie, and with the creative flow of my hand, I scripted these words out on my sketchbook: "Wait, my soul, for His hand to move." So I waited. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,.... Friday. Finally here. And this is where we begin today:
I shut the door of my Alero and as it creaked shut (my baby's getting old....), I was grateful to see both my parents walking towards the entrance of the oncology center. I quickened my pace to catch up with them and as we made our way into the lobby, I again scanned the room to see if there was anyone my age. With a sigh, I realized yet again the answer was no. Why would someone in their 20's be in an oncology center, you ask? Real funny, Mr. Hodgkin's. I will not dignify that with a response.
After I checked in and right as I was about to sit down, the nurse called, "Heidi?" Wow, no waiting? This was a first (it's a possibility I may be feisty in the afternoon too...). We followed her back to a slightly larger room than the first, where she took my temperature.... and the moment we always look forward to, my blood pressure. She looked up at me and with an impressed nod, said, "Very good!" I glanced over at my mom and dad as we exchanged wide grins. You see, in the Stoltz household, we are very proud of our extraordinary blood pressure. Simple joys, sir - just embrace it. Once our claim to fame was stated, she left the room and we assumed the position to once again talk with my oncologist. Since this was the day we would hear all the results from this week's tests, the pressure and anxiety began to build. Before it could escalade, we bowed our heads and prayed to the God who was not worried by this appointment and who was Lord over all things. Sometimes, Mr. Hodgkin's, all it takes is a little prayer to realign back to His perspective, and thus, peace flows.
With a knock, my oncologist walked in ready to shake my hand and greet my parents. As he did, I studied this man once again. I couldn't decide what I thought about him. His serious manner seemed intense yet I realized the situation called for a serious discussion. Hmmm, looks like time will tell. He made his way over to his chair and once again made himself comfortable in my personal space, but only this time, I didn't seem to mind. It was then that we dived right in. As he took out my scans, he said, "I have good news. Your tumors are limited to one area and there is nothing of concern below the upper diaphragm... which means Stage 2." I realized I wasn't breathing and with a grateful sigh, I defaulted back into my regular patterns of respiratory. Thank you, Lord Jesus in heaven. Of course, in matters apropos of you, there's never straight-up easy news. You must love to keep me on my toes because here came the blow: "With stage 2, we will have to do a combination treatment of chemotherapy and radiation." Since radiation was not in the picture before, he then went on to explain the potential risks/side effects concerning this treatment method (one being damage to my thyroid which would put me on replacement pills for the rest of my life). I understand they are liable to communicate these items to me, but nevertheless, my shoulders droop and my heart still sinks. Again, Lord, please protect me. Please.
After these painful words were spoken, he looked straight into my eyes and moved from the negatives to the full-fledged positives, "The benefits far outweigh the risks. With this combination, there is an 80% chance it will go away forever. This combination plan causes a much better response accompanied with the best end results. See, the tumor cells are very smart, and with chemo, they can change and find a different way to attack. However, with targeted radiation, it kills the cells completely; they don't have time to think or how to survive. We would not be able to do this if the tumors were spread throughout your body, but since they are congregated in the neck/upper diaphragm, I'm very confident in this for you and this is very good news." Hmmm, you are more brilliant than you let on, sir; it sounds as if you are very precise in your attack. Well, beware: your cocky approach may tribute to your demise, Mr. Hodgkin's. Hmmm, no actually I take that back - nothing but the power of my God and His firm grasp on me will mark your defeat. One word: sucka.
Here comes another cause to celebrate. Just last week, I was informed treatment was projected to last up to 6 months. However, I, along with numerous others, have been praying all week against you and for the healing power of my God to do His work. No one wants you to inhabit my body any longer than deemed necessary. Now, here is a little lesson on how prayer works, Mr. Hodgkin's. It's actually quite simple. I cry out to my God. I share my heart. He hears me. He delights in answering me. And He moves for my good because I am called according to His purposes (if you don't believe me, read Romans 8:28). So today, this is how my God answered my prayers: "Because the tumors have stayed in the one area, you will only need to go through 4 months of chemotherapy and then 6 weeks of radiation." Better... but wait for it. As we walked out to the lobby, we were passed off to a care coordinator to begin scheduling the appointments for my treatment sessions - beginning with this coming Monday. All the while, my oncologist met with my radiologist to confirm the treatment plan. They then decided together, "Actually, only 3 months of chemotherapy followed by 6 weeks of radiation are required." Concerning chemo, my God took their calculated 6 months and cut that in half; do you not see His hand in all of that? With only 3 months of chemo, the risks are minimal and the side effects reduced (even if radiation is it's own beast). He also shared the results of my other tests: how my heart was in mint condition, my pulminary test came back normal, and my blood levels reported regular. He then pointed at the only area of concern in my blood tests (a weird name I cannot account for) and shrugged his shoulders saying, "You may just have to eat more vegetables." I looked at him without missing a beat and because I'm incorrigible, firmly stated, "I have a poor diet." He looked away with a huge grin and it was then that I decided: I like this guy.
So after another day at the doctor, I hopped in my car and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I gazed up at the bright blue sky ahead. With tears brimming along my eyes, I thanked my God who hears me and changed events in my favor. Not only changed them, but restored them in a way that made my future seem far less scary than it once had only days before. Even with my music turned on low, I caught a chord that amplified the joy in my heart and made me turn the volume up as loud as it could go. Mr. Hodgkin's, with my fists pumping in the air and tears then streaming down my face, I raced down the freeway singing this at the top of my lungs: "I shout out Your Name from the rooftops I proclaim that I am Yours! All that I am, I place into Your loving hands... and I am Yours!" (Like I said before, I have to be a bit more careful when my emotions are high and I'm driving... but seriously, this was a day to hoot and holler... and I shamelessly did just that. Because, sir, joy certainly did come in the morning.)
Yours Truly,
Heid
You seemed to have been pretty proud of yourself this past week what with all the pain you caused and the scary prospect of the future you gave me. But today, I can't help but delight in wiping that smug grin off your face. Let me start off by asking you a question, sir: have you ever heard the verse Psalm 30:5? It simply says this, "Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes with the morning." As you may or may not know, there has been plenty of weeping. Don't act quite so surprised, Mr. Hodgkin's, since your attacks aim not to please. The unknown of the future and what you could possibly do to me would drive me to my knees and my soul would cry out the words of Psalm 69:3, "I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched. My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God." But do you remember my resolve to take God up on His Word? This past week, in the stillness of the night, I picked up my sharpie, and with the creative flow of my hand, I scripted these words out on my sketchbook: "Wait, my soul, for His hand to move." So I waited. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,.... Friday. Finally here. And this is where we begin today:
I shut the door of my Alero and as it creaked shut (my baby's getting old....), I was grateful to see both my parents walking towards the entrance of the oncology center. I quickened my pace to catch up with them and as we made our way into the lobby, I again scanned the room to see if there was anyone my age. With a sigh, I realized yet again the answer was no. Why would someone in their 20's be in an oncology center, you ask? Real funny, Mr. Hodgkin's. I will not dignify that with a response.
After I checked in and right as I was about to sit down, the nurse called, "Heidi?" Wow, no waiting? This was a first (it's a possibility I may be feisty in the afternoon too...). We followed her back to a slightly larger room than the first, where she took my temperature.... and the moment we always look forward to, my blood pressure. She looked up at me and with an impressed nod, said, "Very good!" I glanced over at my mom and dad as we exchanged wide grins. You see, in the Stoltz household, we are very proud of our extraordinary blood pressure. Simple joys, sir - just embrace it. Once our claim to fame was stated, she left the room and we assumed the position to once again talk with my oncologist. Since this was the day we would hear all the results from this week's tests, the pressure and anxiety began to build. Before it could escalade, we bowed our heads and prayed to the God who was not worried by this appointment and who was Lord over all things. Sometimes, Mr. Hodgkin's, all it takes is a little prayer to realign back to His perspective, and thus, peace flows.
With a knock, my oncologist walked in ready to shake my hand and greet my parents. As he did, I studied this man once again. I couldn't decide what I thought about him. His serious manner seemed intense yet I realized the situation called for a serious discussion. Hmmm, looks like time will tell. He made his way over to his chair and once again made himself comfortable in my personal space, but only this time, I didn't seem to mind. It was then that we dived right in. As he took out my scans, he said, "I have good news. Your tumors are limited to one area and there is nothing of concern below the upper diaphragm... which means Stage 2." I realized I wasn't breathing and with a grateful sigh, I defaulted back into my regular patterns of respiratory. Thank you, Lord Jesus in heaven. Of course, in matters apropos of you, there's never straight-up easy news. You must love to keep me on my toes because here came the blow: "With stage 2, we will have to do a combination treatment of chemotherapy and radiation." Since radiation was not in the picture before, he then went on to explain the potential risks/side effects concerning this treatment method (one being damage to my thyroid which would put me on replacement pills for the rest of my life). I understand they are liable to communicate these items to me, but nevertheless, my shoulders droop and my heart still sinks. Again, Lord, please protect me. Please.
After these painful words were spoken, he looked straight into my eyes and moved from the negatives to the full-fledged positives, "The benefits far outweigh the risks. With this combination, there is an 80% chance it will go away forever. This combination plan causes a much better response accompanied with the best end results. See, the tumor cells are very smart, and with chemo, they can change and find a different way to attack. However, with targeted radiation, it kills the cells completely; they don't have time to think or how to survive. We would not be able to do this if the tumors were spread throughout your body, but since they are congregated in the neck/upper diaphragm, I'm very confident in this for you and this is very good news." Hmmm, you are more brilliant than you let on, sir; it sounds as if you are very precise in your attack. Well, beware: your cocky approach may tribute to your demise, Mr. Hodgkin's. Hmmm, no actually I take that back - nothing but the power of my God and His firm grasp on me will mark your defeat. One word: sucka.
Here comes another cause to celebrate. Just last week, I was informed treatment was projected to last up to 6 months. However, I, along with numerous others, have been praying all week against you and for the healing power of my God to do His work. No one wants you to inhabit my body any longer than deemed necessary. Now, here is a little lesson on how prayer works, Mr. Hodgkin's. It's actually quite simple. I cry out to my God. I share my heart. He hears me. He delights in answering me. And He moves for my good because I am called according to His purposes (if you don't believe me, read Romans 8:28). So today, this is how my God answered my prayers: "Because the tumors have stayed in the one area, you will only need to go through 4 months of chemotherapy and then 6 weeks of radiation." Better... but wait for it. As we walked out to the lobby, we were passed off to a care coordinator to begin scheduling the appointments for my treatment sessions - beginning with this coming Monday. All the while, my oncologist met with my radiologist to confirm the treatment plan. They then decided together, "Actually, only 3 months of chemotherapy followed by 6 weeks of radiation are required." Concerning chemo, my God took their calculated 6 months and cut that in half; do you not see His hand in all of that? With only 3 months of chemo, the risks are minimal and the side effects reduced (even if radiation is it's own beast). He also shared the results of my other tests: how my heart was in mint condition, my pulminary test came back normal, and my blood levels reported regular. He then pointed at the only area of concern in my blood tests (a weird name I cannot account for) and shrugged his shoulders saying, "You may just have to eat more vegetables." I looked at him without missing a beat and because I'm incorrigible, firmly stated, "I have a poor diet." He looked away with a huge grin and it was then that I decided: I like this guy.
So after another day at the doctor, I hopped in my car and as I pulled out of the parking lot, I gazed up at the bright blue sky ahead. With tears brimming along my eyes, I thanked my God who hears me and changed events in my favor. Not only changed them, but restored them in a way that made my future seem far less scary than it once had only days before. Even with my music turned on low, I caught a chord that amplified the joy in my heart and made me turn the volume up as loud as it could go. Mr. Hodgkin's, with my fists pumping in the air and tears then streaming down my face, I raced down the freeway singing this at the top of my lungs: "I shout out Your Name from the rooftops I proclaim that I am Yours! All that I am, I place into Your loving hands... and I am Yours!" (Like I said before, I have to be a bit more careful when my emotions are high and I'm driving... but seriously, this was a day to hoot and holler... and I shamelessly did just that. Because, sir, joy certainly did come in the morning.)
Yours Truly,
Heid
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Oh, the hospital... yet again.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
You should count yourself lucky I was raised on the golden rule (treat others the way you want to be treated) or I would be greeting you very differently, my friend. With each passing day, it becomes more apparent how harmful your intentions are for me. You have thrown quite the daggers these past few days that I can't help but hold a harsh perspective of you. Why, you wonder? Eh, fine. I will play along for the sake of our friends.... Let's rewind a few days back:
Monday is a day I normally love. As my Early Childhood counterparts know and understand, it is usually a day of rejuvination and a day of fueling your tank - ultimately, doing whatever the heck you want to do. How do I typically spend my Monday? As if you care to know, but again... I will play along. I enjoy sleeping in beyond the average joe. If I wake up on a Monday before 11:00 AM, I am severely disappointed. But once I am awake, I throw on a hat with no intention of showering (I'm a free spirit in multiple ways) and head out the door to a coffee shop, a bookstore, or the mall. It is then that I grab a book to read, a pen to record my thoughts, my sketchbook to draw, my wallet to purchase, or my glasses to people watch. You know... all things refined. However, this Monday was unpleasantly different.
United Hospital was the destination and my itinerary was packed with a further biopsy and a few tests. I'm not quite sure how much more my veins will politely cooperate with all these needles poking into them, but man, have they been put to the test. The blue and green bruises certainly testify to that. But there was no time to take pity over their grumblings... not with the regimented docket ahead.
So at 8:00 AM (no comment), I checked into the front desk and as I'm giving my information, the coordinator slaps a wristband on my left wrist for identification. Sadly, no amusement park for me today. She then explains to my dad and me that they're running a bit behind... at 8:00 AM. Interesting. Regardless, I sat in my chair waiting for the nurse to call my name. I did my best to pretend I could conduct the day like normal by bringing my sketchbook and all my books. But sitting in that chair, knowing full well what's to come next, I just couldn't. So there I sat staring into the distance as Good Morning America shared the latest fashion trends. I was quite offended; as if ABC should stop their entire broadcast to care about the predicament you have gotten me into. I mean, it seems reasonable, wouldn't you say?
With a call of my name and a swift walk back to a private room, I was again charged to put on a hospital gown. My face flushed red (surprise, surprise). I thought SURELY with a procedure done only on my neck I wouldn't have to be exposed yet again, but it seems as if the nurses have it in for me too. Stinks. Nonetheless, I obeyed, and soon after, my doctor walked in the door. It took but a minute to numb the area of my neck and he then inserted a decent-sized needle into my skin; all the while observing, along with myself, the action via ultrasound on a nearby monitor. As he's sticking this needle into my skin, he asks, "So what was your favorite Super Bowl commercial?" Hmmm, yes, I also see this as the perfect time for small talk. Nevertheless, it took a mere 20 minutes to get through the biopsy and then I was off for my 10:30 exam.
This next test, I found myself facing quite the giant of a machine with a hole carved out in the middle that was just the right size to squeeze my body through. The nurse went on to explain how she was going to draw blood, then mix the sample with radioactive material, and later pump it back into my veins. Wow, that sounds to me like a really safe procedure. She said it was to observe how the left ventricle of my heart responds to it... as if that was supposed to be of comfort (do you see how feisty I can be when I'm forced to function in the AM?). I simply nodded and let her do her thing. Once that was taken care of, she placed 3M foam circles (electrodes) on my body and connected those with wires already attached to a monitor. It was then that the machine came down mere centimeters from my face and the hour-long test began. "Don't move," was all she said.
Are you getting, Mr. Hodgkin's, just how hard this hour was for me? I'll repeat myself. I found myself strapped down to a cold table with radioactive fluid running through my body and wires attached all over me. I'll walk you through a bit more. I was not allowed to have anyone accompany me, nor was I allowed to wear any jewelry. If you do not know, sir, I wear a ring on my right hand that has the phrase engraved, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." I received this ring as a gift from my mom and it has always exhorted me to take one step at time, even in the midst of fear, because the Lord gives us a sure hope that He will see us through. So without a hand to hold or anything familiar nearby, I felt pretty alone. And pretty scared. I've always wondered why it took a hospital stay for some to give their hearts to Christ, and this past Monday, I caught a glimpse into their train of thought. In regular life, you can get so caught up in your friends, emails, work projects and just recreation. In it all, you always have the comfort of the familiar: the home you live in, the co-worker you sit next to, the coffee shop you frequent, the weekend plans you make with friends... but when you're stripped of all those things and all you have going for you is a heart monitor and you're left to stare at a white-tiled ceiling, you realize none of those comforts can reach you at that given moment. None of those comforts have the power to wipe away whatever it is that's causing your decline of health. All you want is someone to swoop in to save you, steal you away from the sterile environment, and heal you so you can once again enjoy the beauty of life.
Mr. Hodgkin's, do you see where I'm going with this? As I laid there, with no comfort in sight anytime soon, tears ran down my face and left puddles unabsorbed by the stainless steel table. But let me share with you, sir, the saving faithfulness of my God. The words of Isaiah 41:13 intruded my thoughts: "For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, 'Do not fear; I will help you.'" In that moment, I clenched my right hand into the tightest fist possible and took God up on His Word. My God is a God who cares for me so intimately that He would delight in stooping down to hold my hand with this simple, reassuring truth: He will help me. You must see my God is not a God who lets me suffer and wishes me good luck; no, just the contrary. My God instead says, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you...because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you..." (Isaiah 43:2,4a). How grateful I am for this protective Father who is in this with me and will defend me at every turn.
....And that, Mr. Hodgkin's, is how you did not win that Monday. The rest of the day went on without hiccup, and when I finally was able to walk through the door of my home that night, I stopped to take a deep breath and praised Jesus for yet again seeing me through.
Yours Truly,
Heidi
You should count yourself lucky I was raised on the golden rule (treat others the way you want to be treated) or I would be greeting you very differently, my friend. With each passing day, it becomes more apparent how harmful your intentions are for me. You have thrown quite the daggers these past few days that I can't help but hold a harsh perspective of you. Why, you wonder? Eh, fine. I will play along for the sake of our friends.... Let's rewind a few days back:
Monday is a day I normally love. As my Early Childhood counterparts know and understand, it is usually a day of rejuvination and a day of fueling your tank - ultimately, doing whatever the heck you want to do. How do I typically spend my Monday? As if you care to know, but again... I will play along. I enjoy sleeping in beyond the average joe. If I wake up on a Monday before 11:00 AM, I am severely disappointed. But once I am awake, I throw on a hat with no intention of showering (I'm a free spirit in multiple ways) and head out the door to a coffee shop, a bookstore, or the mall. It is then that I grab a book to read, a pen to record my thoughts, my sketchbook to draw, my wallet to purchase, or my glasses to people watch. You know... all things refined. However, this Monday was unpleasantly different.
United Hospital was the destination and my itinerary was packed with a further biopsy and a few tests. I'm not quite sure how much more my veins will politely cooperate with all these needles poking into them, but man, have they been put to the test. The blue and green bruises certainly testify to that. But there was no time to take pity over their grumblings... not with the regimented docket ahead.
So at 8:00 AM (no comment), I checked into the front desk and as I'm giving my information, the coordinator slaps a wristband on my left wrist for identification. Sadly, no amusement park for me today. She then explains to my dad and me that they're running a bit behind... at 8:00 AM. Interesting. Regardless, I sat in my chair waiting for the nurse to call my name. I did my best to pretend I could conduct the day like normal by bringing my sketchbook and all my books. But sitting in that chair, knowing full well what's to come next, I just couldn't. So there I sat staring into the distance as Good Morning America shared the latest fashion trends. I was quite offended; as if ABC should stop their entire broadcast to care about the predicament you have gotten me into. I mean, it seems reasonable, wouldn't you say?
With a call of my name and a swift walk back to a private room, I was again charged to put on a hospital gown. My face flushed red (surprise, surprise). I thought SURELY with a procedure done only on my neck I wouldn't have to be exposed yet again, but it seems as if the nurses have it in for me too. Stinks. Nonetheless, I obeyed, and soon after, my doctor walked in the door. It took but a minute to numb the area of my neck and he then inserted a decent-sized needle into my skin; all the while observing, along with myself, the action via ultrasound on a nearby monitor. As he's sticking this needle into my skin, he asks, "So what was your favorite Super Bowl commercial?" Hmmm, yes, I also see this as the perfect time for small talk. Nevertheless, it took a mere 20 minutes to get through the biopsy and then I was off for my 10:30 exam.
This next test, I found myself facing quite the giant of a machine with a hole carved out in the middle that was just the right size to squeeze my body through. The nurse went on to explain how she was going to draw blood, then mix the sample with radioactive material, and later pump it back into my veins. Wow, that sounds to me like a really safe procedure. She said it was to observe how the left ventricle of my heart responds to it... as if that was supposed to be of comfort (do you see how feisty I can be when I'm forced to function in the AM?). I simply nodded and let her do her thing. Once that was taken care of, she placed 3M foam circles (electrodes) on my body and connected those with wires already attached to a monitor. It was then that the machine came down mere centimeters from my face and the hour-long test began. "Don't move," was all she said.
Are you getting, Mr. Hodgkin's, just how hard this hour was for me? I'll repeat myself. I found myself strapped down to a cold table with radioactive fluid running through my body and wires attached all over me. I'll walk you through a bit more. I was not allowed to have anyone accompany me, nor was I allowed to wear any jewelry. If you do not know, sir, I wear a ring on my right hand that has the phrase engraved, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step." I received this ring as a gift from my mom and it has always exhorted me to take one step at time, even in the midst of fear, because the Lord gives us a sure hope that He will see us through. So without a hand to hold or anything familiar nearby, I felt pretty alone. And pretty scared. I've always wondered why it took a hospital stay for some to give their hearts to Christ, and this past Monday, I caught a glimpse into their train of thought. In regular life, you can get so caught up in your friends, emails, work projects and just recreation. In it all, you always have the comfort of the familiar: the home you live in, the co-worker you sit next to, the coffee shop you frequent, the weekend plans you make with friends... but when you're stripped of all those things and all you have going for you is a heart monitor and you're left to stare at a white-tiled ceiling, you realize none of those comforts can reach you at that given moment. None of those comforts have the power to wipe away whatever it is that's causing your decline of health. All you want is someone to swoop in to save you, steal you away from the sterile environment, and heal you so you can once again enjoy the beauty of life.
Mr. Hodgkin's, do you see where I'm going with this? As I laid there, with no comfort in sight anytime soon, tears ran down my face and left puddles unabsorbed by the stainless steel table. But let me share with you, sir, the saving faithfulness of my God. The words of Isaiah 41:13 intruded my thoughts: "For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, 'Do not fear; I will help you.'" In that moment, I clenched my right hand into the tightest fist possible and took God up on His Word. My God is a God who cares for me so intimately that He would delight in stooping down to hold my hand with this simple, reassuring truth: He will help me. You must see my God is not a God who lets me suffer and wishes me good luck; no, just the contrary. My God instead says, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you...because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you..." (Isaiah 43:2,4a). How grateful I am for this protective Father who is in this with me and will defend me at every turn.
....And that, Mr. Hodgkin's, is how you did not win that Monday. The rest of the day went on without hiccup, and when I finally was able to walk through the door of my home that night, I stopped to take a deep breath and praised Jesus for yet again seeing me through.
Yours Truly,
Heidi
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Oh, off to meet my oncologist.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
Shall we revert back to my oncology appointment this past Friday? I'm hesitant because although two days have passed, the shock and the fear seem painfully fresh. I've been chiding myself for my stunned response, sir; I'm very much disliking this disoriented feeling you provoke, but can't seem to bypass it. Will there be a time when you cease to offend me, sir? Or is my offense possibly a cause to celebrate: my heart remaining tender under your rough grasp? I must probe further and possibly deeper: why are we repelled when bad things happen to us? As if we deserve otherwise? Is it not inevitable in this life? Sir, I see this as nothing but a sure sign as to how we were made; our Creator's original design for us humans was always to live in perfect peace testified in the Garden of Eden. I digress.
I laid in bed Friday morning staring at my ceiling. I heard voices and a bit of commotion downstairs, but couldn't get myself to move. If I did, I knew I'd have to face the day and what could potentially unfold, which jolted fear in every crevice of my mind. How far have you spread at this point? What treatment would be necessary to get rid of you and for how long? How much pain is involved (I'm pretty much a child)? What are the side effects, short-term and long-term? And the question that is still hard for me to spit out... what's the percentage of those who completely heal from you? Eh. If my bladder wasn't so demanding, this rampage would have gone on longer than the 30 minutes already spent, but begrudgingly, I hoisted myself out of my comforting bed, and with every effort I could muster, faced the day.
Sitting in the lobby of the oncology center, I surveyed the scene. I saw a silver-haired man sit alone as he candidly talked to the receptionist... must be a long-time patient. I looked to the right as a short grandma in her 80's was being escorted inside the building with her arm looped around the arm of a younger man twice her size... her son? My eyes drifted back to the left where an older woman obviously well into her chemotherapy sat near a fake fireplace... with a scarf wrapped around her head and her eyes somewhat hollow. Please, Lord, let the life remain in my body and let joy still mark my face. It quickly became apparent to me that I was the only one in the lobby under the age of 55 (besides my oh-so-young parents that sat to my right). At that, I looked right at my parents and shared my thoughts, "I should not be here. Man, I'm only 23. I hate this... I just really hate this."
It was then that I heard my name called, and within minutes, my parents and I were stuffed into a baby patient room like sardines. I was told this two-hour meeting would be packed with information and could be overwhelming. Advice: Bring a couple more ears and a way to record everything. Thus, mom, dad and a G2 pen (nothing better). A nurse sat down and started going through my records, family history, and current state of health. "You seem healthy, how often a week do you work out?"
Oops, haven't since sophomore year of college.
"Well, do you at least oblige a healthy diet?"
I had ice cream cake for dinner last night.
"Um, okay..." And then came the argument for staying fit, maintaining a healthy diet, yada, yada, yada.
Yes, lady, I've heard this all before; I'm sorry to say I'm still not convinced...
Let's just say, she did not seem pleased.
I soon wondered what my oncologist would be like, but I didn't have to wait long to find out... With a couple knocks, a burly man with suspenders walked in, greeting me with a very thick-Polish accent. He exuded a quiet confidence as he shook our hands, sat down and positioned his chair but a few feet away from myself, staring right into my eyes. If the situation wasn't so serious, I would have thought he instigated a staring contest; that of which I would have surely won. Trust me, in Kid-O-Deo, I'm a reigning champ. Nonetheless, I'm somewhat competitive, so even if the situation deems it unnecessary, I still rise to the occasion.... so I stared right back. He dived right into the information and throughout it all, I knew he was trying to read me, get to know my reactions, as he paused after delivering each blow, each miserable side effect, each piece of treatment. (Side-note: He never averted his eyes... until he had to address a question from my parents. Winner.) Everything he said was so overwhelming, I finally took a breath at the end and then looked down to realize I never wrote anything down.
But here is what I did learn about you, Mr. Hodgkin's (via the notes of my mother):
Yours Truly,
Heid
Shall we revert back to my oncology appointment this past Friday? I'm hesitant because although two days have passed, the shock and the fear seem painfully fresh. I've been chiding myself for my stunned response, sir; I'm very much disliking this disoriented feeling you provoke, but can't seem to bypass it. Will there be a time when you cease to offend me, sir? Or is my offense possibly a cause to celebrate: my heart remaining tender under your rough grasp? I must probe further and possibly deeper: why are we repelled when bad things happen to us? As if we deserve otherwise? Is it not inevitable in this life? Sir, I see this as nothing but a sure sign as to how we were made; our Creator's original design for us humans was always to live in perfect peace testified in the Garden of Eden. I digress.
I laid in bed Friday morning staring at my ceiling. I heard voices and a bit of commotion downstairs, but couldn't get myself to move. If I did, I knew I'd have to face the day and what could potentially unfold, which jolted fear in every crevice of my mind. How far have you spread at this point? What treatment would be necessary to get rid of you and for how long? How much pain is involved (I'm pretty much a child)? What are the side effects, short-term and long-term? And the question that is still hard for me to spit out... what's the percentage of those who completely heal from you? Eh. If my bladder wasn't so demanding, this rampage would have gone on longer than the 30 minutes already spent, but begrudgingly, I hoisted myself out of my comforting bed, and with every effort I could muster, faced the day.
Sitting in the lobby of the oncology center, I surveyed the scene. I saw a silver-haired man sit alone as he candidly talked to the receptionist... must be a long-time patient. I looked to the right as a short grandma in her 80's was being escorted inside the building with her arm looped around the arm of a younger man twice her size... her son? My eyes drifted back to the left where an older woman obviously well into her chemotherapy sat near a fake fireplace... with a scarf wrapped around her head and her eyes somewhat hollow. Please, Lord, let the life remain in my body and let joy still mark my face. It quickly became apparent to me that I was the only one in the lobby under the age of 55 (besides my oh-so-young parents that sat to my right). At that, I looked right at my parents and shared my thoughts, "I should not be here. Man, I'm only 23. I hate this... I just really hate this."
It was then that I heard my name called, and within minutes, my parents and I were stuffed into a baby patient room like sardines. I was told this two-hour meeting would be packed with information and could be overwhelming. Advice: Bring a couple more ears and a way to record everything. Thus, mom, dad and a G2 pen (nothing better). A nurse sat down and started going through my records, family history, and current state of health. "You seem healthy, how often a week do you work out?"
Oops, haven't since sophomore year of college.
"Well, do you at least oblige a healthy diet?"
I had ice cream cake for dinner last night.
"Um, okay..." And then came the argument for staying fit, maintaining a healthy diet, yada, yada, yada.
Yes, lady, I've heard this all before; I'm sorry to say I'm still not convinced...
Let's just say, she did not seem pleased.
I soon wondered what my oncologist would be like, but I didn't have to wait long to find out... With a couple knocks, a burly man with suspenders walked in, greeting me with a very thick-Polish accent. He exuded a quiet confidence as he shook our hands, sat down and positioned his chair but a few feet away from myself, staring right into my eyes. If the situation wasn't so serious, I would have thought he instigated a staring contest; that of which I would have surely won. Trust me, in Kid-O-Deo, I'm a reigning champ. Nonetheless, I'm somewhat competitive, so even if the situation deems it unnecessary, I still rise to the occasion.... so I stared right back. He dived right into the information and throughout it all, I knew he was trying to read me, get to know my reactions, as he paused after delivering each blow, each miserable side effect, each piece of treatment. (Side-note: He never averted his eyes... until he had to address a question from my parents. Winner.) Everything he said was so overwhelming, I finally took a breath at the end and then looked down to realize I never wrote anything down.
But here is what I did learn about you, Mr. Hodgkin's (via the notes of my mother):
- My tumors (ew) are attacking the supportive tissue around the lymph nodes.
- There are different types of you, sir, and I have the "Classical Nodular" kind, which is reported to be the most common and easiest to treat.
- I have to go through 4 more tests this week to determine exactly what stage you are at, sucka (3 on Monday, February 6th and 1 on Tuesday, February 7th). They know you are at a Stage 2 or 3, and if you are only found in my upper diaphragm, I will be diagnosed at Stage 2. These tests will also determine the health and strength of my lungs and heart.
- Treatment for you, in my case, will only be chemotherapy and not radiation, and this will be given every 2 weeks for a total of 6 months/12 doses.
- How to know chemotherapy is working? PET scans will be taken after 2 months and then at 6 months.
- I have an appointment back with my oncologist this Friday to go over my tests' results and talk more about treatment and when to schedule those.
- Here's the biggest blow: I will need to be on a healthy diet and I'm supposed to be active... I knew that nurse gave me a smirk as she turned to walk out of the room.
Yours Truly,
Heid
Friday, February 3, 2012
Oh, the places we will go.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
Where did I leave off? I must admit, you have a habit of flustering me, so forgive my forgetfulness. Ah, yes... to speed up our friends. After that oh-so-dreadful news of your inhabitance, I went straight for home... my parent's home. Isn't it true that when life throws you off-kilter, there's nothing sweeter and more stabilizing than returning home? At least that was my instinct, so after I assured my mom I was okay to drive, that's the direction my car headed.
Pause. Does this mean I have a past of not being okay to drive? Let me take a minute to rewind back to high school to shed some light on this. After receiving news that my grandpa had been air-lifted to a hospital, I jumped in my jeep and by a forceful push of the pedal, my speedometer climbed from 0 to 60 mph in a matter of 5 seconds (jeep's have some serious giddy-up, people). Of course, just my luck, a cop was sitting on the side of the road (lights off, mind you). It only took another 5 seconds to pull me over. There's a further story that unfolds from there, but let's just say I ran to their cop car, crying deliriously, had to stand 5 feet away with 3 lights shining in my face, explained my situation all the while their hands close to their weapons; however, after all the confusion was dispelled (clearly they needed perspective), I ended up getting an escort home from the kind gentlemen officers. No ticket; therefore, no folly. In conclusion, when my emotions are high, my driving may somewhat be affected... somewhat... slight degree... don't judge me. Nevertheless, back to where I left off: I reassured my mom I was good to go and confirmed that as soon as I peeled out of the parking lot.
On the drive home, I prayed for an earlier appointment, begged for an appointment even that same week. A strong sense of urgency flared up with the thought of you growing in my body uninhibited and unrestrained. Ew. Within hours, a care coordinator called me saying the time scheduled for the next week wouldn't work and asked if that appointment could be pushed back. My heart sank... with a shaky voice, I asked, "Is there any way I can get an earlier appointment?" Because the girl had pity on me and the Lord answers prayers, my biopsy was switched to that Friday. 2 days to wait... doable.
Friday came and I trekked down to United Hospital to do a few biospies on you. Nothing too notable, except that 3 medium-sized needles pricked me and after a conclusion of poor samplings, they came back with 2 larger needles to poke at the same lymph node. Definite bruises, for sure. It was vague when I would hear results: my specialist said that day, my pathologist said Monday, and my primary doctor said Tuesday or Wednesday. Again, with just my luck, I did not get a call until Wednesday afternoon.
How can I explain the waiting process to you? I can only ascribe it as pure helplessness. With a bug, you can take action: swallow some medicine, get rest and drink tea. Not in this case; not with you, sir. There's nothing I can do to heal from you on my own. I have zero control. Do you know how scary that is? ...But then, just like a flip of a coin, I experienced this overwhelming sense of complete freedom. Because do you know then who does have control over you, Mr. Hodgkin's? This all-powerful man, this known Healer, named Jesus. In fact, I am told in Matthew that by simply stretching out His hand and saying, "I will heal you; be clean," Jesus healed those as sick as the lepers and as feeble as the paralytics. Those who were beyond hope with no cure in sight were healed and made new by the power and gentle touch of my God, Jesus. Even more so, just a few lines later, it is written Jesus already took my illness and already bore my disease. He took care of this long ago on the cross and is faithful to the end, sir. I don't mean to cause any disrespect, but you must know, you have some serious opposition.
The Wednesday phone call was made by the EMT specialist to deliver news that I do not have Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, but that the pathologist needed a larger sample to confirm you were the culprit. So what needed to be done? A bone marrow biopsy on both hips and surgery on my neck to remove a lymph node. Sigh. Okay, whatever it takes.
Finally, Tuesday, January 31st rolls around and I'm in a hospital bed at United waiting for the surgeons. After 2 hours of pre-op, plenty of repeated questions on my health, IV's digging into my skin, I then came face-to-face with a substantial hurdle and my biggest concern of the day: feeling pretty exposed in my hospital gown. If you know me, I'm about as conservative and bashful as they get when it comes to matters of dress; so when I naively thought I could be clothed appropriately throughout the surgery and then found out otherwise, my heart started pounding and I started sweating. Endearing? I hope so. "Just put my under now," I dramatically begged.
Fast-forward 3 hours when I finally came out of the cloud of anesthesia. Since I take no medicine or drugs as it is, my body did not respond too well with all the pain meds they gave me. They held me captive for 6 hours in recovery when I finally resolved to fake it. "I'm feeling much better, miss. Can I go home now?" The nurse scurried around to give me my final meds and remove my IV's as I made a side-ways look at my mom and mouthed, "I'm about to throw up." Before my nurse glanced back, I turned back to her with as big of a smile as I could manage. You may not want the details, but I did toss my cookies on the drive home; however, I calmed my stomach by a McDonald's cheeseburger. Better than medicine, peeps.
Okay, Mr. Hodgkin's, I had every intention of bringing everyone up to speed, but you have taken up enough of my evening. My oncologist appointment was today, and the general information he gave about you was somewhat frightening. I can see how the future seems scary with your looming presence, but I will not lose hope. My God calls me to a much worthier response: "He will have no fear of bad news; His heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord" Psalm 112:7. I'm now instructed and I must heed to my Teacher. Peace out, man.
Yours truly,
Heid
Where did I leave off? I must admit, you have a habit of flustering me, so forgive my forgetfulness. Ah, yes... to speed up our friends. After that oh-so-dreadful news of your inhabitance, I went straight for home... my parent's home. Isn't it true that when life throws you off-kilter, there's nothing sweeter and more stabilizing than returning home? At least that was my instinct, so after I assured my mom I was okay to drive, that's the direction my car headed.
Pause. Does this mean I have a past of not being okay to drive? Let me take a minute to rewind back to high school to shed some light on this. After receiving news that my grandpa had been air-lifted to a hospital, I jumped in my jeep and by a forceful push of the pedal, my speedometer climbed from 0 to 60 mph in a matter of 5 seconds (jeep's have some serious giddy-up, people). Of course, just my luck, a cop was sitting on the side of the road (lights off, mind you). It only took another 5 seconds to pull me over. There's a further story that unfolds from there, but let's just say I ran to their cop car, crying deliriously, had to stand 5 feet away with 3 lights shining in my face, explained my situation all the while their hands close to their weapons; however, after all the confusion was dispelled (clearly they needed perspective), I ended up getting an escort home from the kind gentlemen officers. No ticket; therefore, no folly. In conclusion, when my emotions are high, my driving may somewhat be affected... somewhat... slight degree... don't judge me. Nevertheless, back to where I left off: I reassured my mom I was good to go and confirmed that as soon as I peeled out of the parking lot.
On the drive home, I prayed for an earlier appointment, begged for an appointment even that same week. A strong sense of urgency flared up with the thought of you growing in my body uninhibited and unrestrained. Ew. Within hours, a care coordinator called me saying the time scheduled for the next week wouldn't work and asked if that appointment could be pushed back. My heart sank... with a shaky voice, I asked, "Is there any way I can get an earlier appointment?" Because the girl had pity on me and the Lord answers prayers, my biopsy was switched to that Friday. 2 days to wait... doable.
Friday came and I trekked down to United Hospital to do a few biospies on you. Nothing too notable, except that 3 medium-sized needles pricked me and after a conclusion of poor samplings, they came back with 2 larger needles to poke at the same lymph node. Definite bruises, for sure. It was vague when I would hear results: my specialist said that day, my pathologist said Monday, and my primary doctor said Tuesday or Wednesday. Again, with just my luck, I did not get a call until Wednesday afternoon.
How can I explain the waiting process to you? I can only ascribe it as pure helplessness. With a bug, you can take action: swallow some medicine, get rest and drink tea. Not in this case; not with you, sir. There's nothing I can do to heal from you on my own. I have zero control. Do you know how scary that is? ...But then, just like a flip of a coin, I experienced this overwhelming sense of complete freedom. Because do you know then who does have control over you, Mr. Hodgkin's? This all-powerful man, this known Healer, named Jesus. In fact, I am told in Matthew that by simply stretching out His hand and saying, "I will heal you; be clean," Jesus healed those as sick as the lepers and as feeble as the paralytics. Those who were beyond hope with no cure in sight were healed and made new by the power and gentle touch of my God, Jesus. Even more so, just a few lines later, it is written Jesus already took my illness and already bore my disease. He took care of this long ago on the cross and is faithful to the end, sir. I don't mean to cause any disrespect, but you must know, you have some serious opposition.
The Wednesday phone call was made by the EMT specialist to deliver news that I do not have Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, but that the pathologist needed a larger sample to confirm you were the culprit. So what needed to be done? A bone marrow biopsy on both hips and surgery on my neck to remove a lymph node. Sigh. Okay, whatever it takes.
Finally, Tuesday, January 31st rolls around and I'm in a hospital bed at United waiting for the surgeons. After 2 hours of pre-op, plenty of repeated questions on my health, IV's digging into my skin, I then came face-to-face with a substantial hurdle and my biggest concern of the day: feeling pretty exposed in my hospital gown. If you know me, I'm about as conservative and bashful as they get when it comes to matters of dress; so when I naively thought I could be clothed appropriately throughout the surgery and then found out otherwise, my heart started pounding and I started sweating. Endearing? I hope so. "Just put my under now," I dramatically begged.
Fast-forward 3 hours when I finally came out of the cloud of anesthesia. Since I take no medicine or drugs as it is, my body did not respond too well with all the pain meds they gave me. They held me captive for 6 hours in recovery when I finally resolved to fake it. "I'm feeling much better, miss. Can I go home now?" The nurse scurried around to give me my final meds and remove my IV's as I made a side-ways look at my mom and mouthed, "I'm about to throw up." Before my nurse glanced back, I turned back to her with as big of a smile as I could manage. You may not want the details, but I did toss my cookies on the drive home; however, I calmed my stomach by a McDonald's cheeseburger. Better than medicine, peeps.
Okay, Mr. Hodgkin's, I had every intention of bringing everyone up to speed, but you have taken up enough of my evening. My oncologist appointment was today, and the general information he gave about you was somewhat frightening. I can see how the future seems scary with your looming presence, but I will not lose hope. My God calls me to a much worthier response: "He will have no fear of bad news; His heart is steadfast, trusting in the Lord" Psalm 112:7. I'm now instructed and I must heed to my Teacher. Peace out, man.
Yours truly,
Heid
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Oh, hello there.
Dear Mr. Hodgkin's,
I know we have just met and this is our first correspondence, but our relationship has already changed quite a bit over the last 3 weeks. When I first saw sign of you that Friday 3 weeks ago, I immediately went to visit my faithful doctor. I had 2 lumps forming on my neck, and the first thought I had was, "I have cancer... I'm dying." Quite morbid, but if you know me, I was the girl, who before running out the door to school, would turn back to yell: "Mom, if I die, I love you and I'm with Jesus!" (with a huge smile on my face, mind you). So naturally, my mind fills with all possibilities and lands on the most dreadful one. Thankfully, my doctor was calm and logical for the both of us and sent me to the lab for the works: blood tests, x-rays, a mono test and a CT scan. That very night, my precious doctor followed-up with some of the results; my blood tests were normal and my mono test came back negative. Reason why she is so precious? She called after work hours to deliver my results as quickly as they came in solely to ease any anxiety I had with a long weekend ahead of waiting. She kept repeating kind words like, "We are simply in the stage of learning more. Nothing to be scared about. We can only deal with the news we have today." Wise sage, she is.
I knew nothing of you until the following week when I had an appointment scheduled with an ENT specialist to go over my CT scan. At the time, this specialist thought I had already known my results concerning you because she came in with this greeting: "Any questions you have for me?"
Ummm, questions about what? When she saw my head tilt in confusion, she asked, "Have you not gone over your results with your doctor?"
Oops, that's why I'm here, lady.
"Well, okay - let's go over your scan... hmm, well after scanning your lymph nodes... I don't know a lot about this, but the radiologist believes it to be lymphoma... Now, do you have any questions?"
I just stared at her. I looked back at my mom. Stared back at her. "What is that? Is that cancer?"
"Yes."
Wow, okay.
And this is where we begin.
I was then passed off to a care coordinator who picked up the phone to connect with United Hospital. Ring, ring. "Oh, hello, I need an appointment with a pathologist to do a lymph node biopsy."
Silence.
She looks up at me, "Any preference? Next available time?" Um, yes please.
Silence.
"Does next Wednesday work for you?" I looked at my mom and nearly passed out right there. Next Wednesday? That would mean a full week of waiting. It took everything in me to keep from ripping the phone from her hand and demanding (or screaming for) an earlier appointment. However, the shock still had control over me, so I simply nodded and prayed to the only One who heard my thoughts and begged for an earlier time.
Walking out of the doctor's office, I went straight to my mom's car as I bypassed my own. As I climbed into the passenger seat, I looked at my mom, eyes brimming with tears. Strong degrees of angst, turmoil, fear and disappointment whirled inside my little heart as my longing for a rescue, my need for hope, my plea for God's healing power battled right back. Still to this day, sir, I will never be able to explain how wicked you were to my spirit. How scared you made me feel. How defeated my future seemed. You caught me off guard, yes. For a moment there, your fog made me lose sight. Oh, but now I see the light, and the Lord has sweetly shown me otherwise...
My God has a plan for me. He tells me my times are in His hands and that His purposes for me cannot be thwarted, even by the likes of you. My God is known for faithfully saving His people. He is more powerful than any other. My God has protected His people at every turn and rescued them from the troubles plaguing their souls. His promises are still true for me as they were and are for everyone that puts their hope in Him. BAM. Sir, I have made the Lord my dwelling place and this is what I'm promised: "If you make the Lord your refuge, if you make the Most High your shelter, no evil will conquer you; no plague will come near your home" Psalm 91:9-10. Well, Mr. Hodgkin's, I'm taking that to the bank (or to Spire Credit Union - shout out to you, Dad).
There's still another week to reminisce and bring our friends up to speed, but I can only take you in small doses. I'm sure you understand.
Yours Truly,
Heid
I know we have just met and this is our first correspondence, but our relationship has already changed quite a bit over the last 3 weeks. When I first saw sign of you that Friday 3 weeks ago, I immediately went to visit my faithful doctor. I had 2 lumps forming on my neck, and the first thought I had was, "I have cancer... I'm dying." Quite morbid, but if you know me, I was the girl, who before running out the door to school, would turn back to yell: "Mom, if I die, I love you and I'm with Jesus!" (with a huge smile on my face, mind you). So naturally, my mind fills with all possibilities and lands on the most dreadful one. Thankfully, my doctor was calm and logical for the both of us and sent me to the lab for the works: blood tests, x-rays, a mono test and a CT scan. That very night, my precious doctor followed-up with some of the results; my blood tests were normal and my mono test came back negative. Reason why she is so precious? She called after work hours to deliver my results as quickly as they came in solely to ease any anxiety I had with a long weekend ahead of waiting. She kept repeating kind words like, "We are simply in the stage of learning more. Nothing to be scared about. We can only deal with the news we have today." Wise sage, she is.
I knew nothing of you until the following week when I had an appointment scheduled with an ENT specialist to go over my CT scan. At the time, this specialist thought I had already known my results concerning you because she came in with this greeting: "Any questions you have for me?"
Ummm, questions about what? When she saw my head tilt in confusion, she asked, "Have you not gone over your results with your doctor?"
Oops, that's why I'm here, lady.
"Well, okay - let's go over your scan... hmm, well after scanning your lymph nodes... I don't know a lot about this, but the radiologist believes it to be lymphoma... Now, do you have any questions?"
I just stared at her. I looked back at my mom. Stared back at her. "What is that? Is that cancer?"
"Yes."
Wow, okay.
And this is where we begin.
I was then passed off to a care coordinator who picked up the phone to connect with United Hospital. Ring, ring. "Oh, hello, I need an appointment with a pathologist to do a lymph node biopsy."
Silence.
She looks up at me, "Any preference? Next available time?" Um, yes please.
Silence.
"Does next Wednesday work for you?" I looked at my mom and nearly passed out right there. Next Wednesday? That would mean a full week of waiting. It took everything in me to keep from ripping the phone from her hand and demanding (or screaming for) an earlier appointment. However, the shock still had control over me, so I simply nodded and prayed to the only One who heard my thoughts and begged for an earlier time.
Walking out of the doctor's office, I went straight to my mom's car as I bypassed my own. As I climbed into the passenger seat, I looked at my mom, eyes brimming with tears. Strong degrees of angst, turmoil, fear and disappointment whirled inside my little heart as my longing for a rescue, my need for hope, my plea for God's healing power battled right back. Still to this day, sir, I will never be able to explain how wicked you were to my spirit. How scared you made me feel. How defeated my future seemed. You caught me off guard, yes. For a moment there, your fog made me lose sight. Oh, but now I see the light, and the Lord has sweetly shown me otherwise...
My God has a plan for me. He tells me my times are in His hands and that His purposes for me cannot be thwarted, even by the likes of you. My God is known for faithfully saving His people. He is more powerful than any other. My God has protected His people at every turn and rescued them from the troubles plaguing their souls. His promises are still true for me as they were and are for everyone that puts their hope in Him. BAM. Sir, I have made the Lord my dwelling place and this is what I'm promised: "If you make the Lord your refuge, if you make the Most High your shelter, no evil will conquer you; no plague will come near your home" Psalm 91:9-10. Well, Mr. Hodgkin's, I'm taking that to the bank (or to Spire Credit Union - shout out to you, Dad).
There's still another week to reminisce and bring our friends up to speed, but I can only take you in small doses. I'm sure you understand.
Yours Truly,
Heid
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