Every Possible Good Thing

There is no way, no collection of words, or any way to order the paltry lexicon I have, to say how huge is my relief and joy to be told today that the tiny cyst in my pancreas amounts to nothing serious, that such a thing is seen more often now because imaging is so much better. I have no other bodily issues and will not need to see my oncologist until May. I will sleep easily tonight, free of worry, content that I have done all that is available to do, and have succeeded at all the effort offered me. I remain hugely impressed with my whole Cleveland Clinic team, whether at main campus or Moll Center or wherever. Mine has been exemplary care, always guided by the Heavenly Hand on which I rely. At every point the way was made clear and my role in it was clearly defined. I regret that I doubt my own intelligence, forget the many things I have learned, or I would have recalled that simple fact of improved imagery showing us things we couldn't see before. Scripture instructs me not to lean on my own understanding, but that doesn't mean to shut my brain down. If I felt less threatened, I'd think more clearly. And worry less. The God in Whom I so heartily believe is and has been so constant, so present and so in charge of my life and I am happy to witness that testimony to His greatness and His ever present love for me. That's right. That same God who holds the universe in place, who is the Author of everything, that God in Holy Spirit form, sat in the chemo chair with me, extended His arm along with mine, to bare a vein for the toxin that would kill to heal. I did none of it alone, but knew and felt His presence, just as today He came with me to hear what I was so afraid would be bad. And when I felt shame for lack of faith, He comforted me like a two year old child, and did not admonish, but encouraged me. He does not hold my little human failures against me. He has always held me close on His lap, rocked me in His arms, whispered in my ear of His loving care for me.

Recovery

Perhaps I need to simplify my new life. Recovery is on a whole other plane. Or maybe that should read planet. After eight months of hard battle to kick cancer, I'm still revving, though weary. In fight Mideast for so long, relaxing into wellness is a bit of a trick. Takes practice and a lot of belief to bring relief. A few decisions help. I no longer watch the news. I sit idle with deliberation, for this does not come easily to me. I husband my energy, a discipline strange to my natural rhythms. I nap. Ugh! I have been lured back to writing. I savor moments and experience them now, and don't save them up for later when they are cold and dim. I daydream between sessions on the stairs for exercise. I watch the snow fall, like today, when we have accumulated three inches. I watch the birds. They are about their winter business. They are teaching me to pace myself. I am becoming a believer in my recovery. I have begun to trust that I am well. To give myself permission as victory after so much hard work, dogged and faithful in this battle. I have been, indeed, have become, a Ninja. My investment in my future was not for chasing rainbows, but for grasping that healing and cure were a definite possibility, to push any chance for recurrence far into the future, should there be any at all. I have no time, patience or energy to suffer fools. When did I ever? But now, I husband all that belongs to me, like that valuable commodity, and I am learning to not forfeit my power to anyone. There is no acceptable reason to spend irreplaceable time entertaining fools. I have divorced more than one friend over politics and do not regret it. But I understand that arena is empty and false, and playing there is nearly pornographic in it's filth and slime and degradation. I cannot offer up a single good reason to save Soddom. And these are people we elect to represent us. What does that say about us? I permit myself really good desserts. Without guilt. No remorse. A touch more jiggle. More fruit. Green veggies. Wine. So much chicken and fish I cluck and have gills, even if my hair growth is minuscule, and my nails have fallen off. I am still a Ninja Warrior, honing my weapons, knowing all of life is a battle, with small oases of respite. I will be careful who is allowed on my island.

How awful is this server?

I just wrote a whole new post about dealing with recovery from eight months of treatment for cancer to become a survivor. The publish button refused to work and so I previewed my rather lovely essay and could not get out of it to publish it. No wonder so many of bloggers use something else. Like wordpress. This gig needs to be over.

Getting closer

I feel like an alien in a bad movie. Think I need fortification. Either a good breakfast or a good drink. Little early, but I'm considering it. Such is the bad influence of Google. I have been away from my blog for six months and have defrayed out this page, but cannot seem to figure out how to publish. I wonder why google chooses to be user unfriendly? I have no intention to lose a whole day trying to restart this exercise in frustration. I got plenty of that for the rest of my life, having completed surgery, chemo, and two kinds of radiation. Add the indignity of hair loss, fingernail loss, and neuropathy, to say nothing about the scary occurrence of friend's and family finding they too are victims of cancer, in their own battles for survival. I don't need to add google stress to my litany.

Still trying to publish

Nothing is working and I think I can't figure this out.

The Picture Box

On her way to her new home in Florida, my sister delivered a shoe box full of photographs, most of them recording my childhood beyond orphanage. Hours and hours of looking at them, I managed to sort and organize them into a sequence that made chronological sense. Along with black and whites of my brother and me, of kids on our street, of neighbors and friends, were numerous photos of my motherland her friends at Triumph Explosives where she made ammo for the Navy in WW 2. While she had put us in an orphanage, this new widow took on the challenge of the nation while earning a living for herself and her family. In every one of the many photos of her, she is smiling or laughing into the camera. She is clearly happy in her work. A woman with many stresses, still, she is not only making the best of her lot, she's happy doing it. My father died at the age of 32, leaving her with two kids and one coming. The war was on it's way and she had no income beyond a small life insurance policy. Serendipity? She and millions of other American women put down their lives to take up the pressing need of the nation. With whole towns emptied of able bodied men, women took up the war work. They proved their mettle, working long shifts and producing all the nation needed for the effort. For so many of them, this was heady freedom. Across the nation, young women sent their earnings home. My mother supported her siblings, paying their utility bills, their rents, their grocery bills. Not everybody was Rosie the Riveter. Making explosives was dangerous work. More than once my mother was blown across a building. some people died working with unstable gun powder. Daily life was a risk upon which she apparently thrived. I look at the smiling woman in the frame and experience a revelation. Caught up in her story of difficult challenges, she is smiling through, doing her best, making it work.I see where my own strengths have been shaped. I recognize her and myself in her. She has a spine of steel. While life is a challenge, it's also a blast. Mama never muddled through. She took life by the horns, leapt aboard and rode the experience to the ground. The downside, for her, was equivalent to the upside. Her very strengths made her tough and often hard. She forfeited any soft side she might have had. Soft was unaffordable. She kept the posture even when it was no longer needed. Each of us make our choices. Mama made hers. It is important now to understand the woman in the picture so to know her. Because all her choices helped shape me.

Incredibly bad format

The format sucks,for starters. There are very good reasons I don't use my blog often. Usually, when there is this much tinkering, folks are indicating they don't have enough to do. Continual redesign, or tinkering, to justify chronic change, discourages users to the enth degree. Having wasted an hour finding myself and figuring out how to access my account, I really have little interest in what I thought I had go say. Better things to do than aggravate myself here. Life is waaaaayyyy too short to be jerked around by google. When getting there takes longer than getting it said, I'm probably in the wrong place.