Oh, I'm now a female Keanu Reeves.

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