Help me.

I have spent a lot of time today on the phone with our insurance company and the endocrinologist's office. We are getting ready to start the dreaded low iodine diet the Monday after Thanksgiving in preparation for a scan in December. I'm trying to be optimistic, but seriously, what a way to kick off the holidays.

Stan will spend two weeks on the diet in preparation for the scan. That week will be one of daily trips to the doctor's office and hospital for injections, bloodwork, and finally, the scan. I am trying to look at this as an isolated event as opposed to a continuation of appointments and hospital visits we have experienced for over a year now. Our goal is for this scan to be clear. For this to be the end of the thyroid disease/cancer trail for us.

I think back to last Thanksgiving and Christmas and can't help but be amazed by how relatively normal our life feels as opposed to last year. I've decided no one should have to go through Christmas waiting for a biopsy. But sometimes it happens. You survive, and then you find yourself headed into the holidays once again waiting for something else. This time, results that give you permission to stop waiting. You discover you have been holding your breath, waiting for this marker that will tell you you can stop worrying. Even when you didn't know you were. Waiting takes a lot of effort. Especially when you are trying to pretend you aren't doing it.

This morning as I spent time in prayer, my prayer was this: Help me let it go. Help me let go of the waiting and worry. Any of the fear that is left. The what-ifs. Just help me let go. Just help me. Help me. Help.

 

"Here comes the sun."

Donald Miller shares a story about how he never liked jazz until one night when he was outside a theater in Portland and saw a man playing a saxophone. He said that the whole time he stood there, the man never opened his eyes. He says that sometimes you have to see somebody love something to be able to love it yourself.

Yesterday I walked out of a hospital with my husband. Hopefully, it was the last hard leg of this journey we have been on for 10 months now. He spent three days isolated in a hospital room, his view little more than a piece of sky and the roof of the neighboring building. Stripped of his belongings, with limited human contact, he waited for the radiation to course through his body on a mission to seek and destroy harmful cells. One little pill can make that happen. I keep telling him it is worth the struggle and frustration.

I know it is worth it. As we walked out from under the shade of the portico into the warm sunlight, I watched him stop in the middle of a busy sidewalk, tilt his head back and let the light wash over him. It was as if he physically melted a bit. I love the sun. I love nature, the outdoors, and the beauty of creation. But I love it all a little bit differently after that moment. You only have to see a man with his face lifted to the sun and tears in his eyes to see everything more clearly. And in the words of George Harrison, "It's alright. It's alright."

Currents

The view from my kayak

A lot can happen in a matter of a day's time. On Sunday, my husband and I decided to take out the kayaks and  head for the river. We spent a few hours mostly letting ourselves be carried by the current of the rain swollen Colorado River. We didn't have to work hard to make our way down river and it was nice to just let ourselves be carried, giving us a chance to direct our gaze to nature. And boy, did she show off. The spring rains provided a lush, deep green landscape full of life. We witnessed turtle after turtle lazily slide off their logs, plopping noisily into the water below them. A pair of baby Teal paddling along the edge of the bank.   Butterfly after butterfly floating effortlessly across the water. We watched a fat Blue Cat rise to the surface, disappearing as quietly as he appeared. And there was the profusion of Morning Glories, cascading down from the very top of a tree, as if a living altar had sprung from the river bank to climb toward Heaven. All of this made me quiet, stilled my soul. I did my best to breathe it all in and exhale thankfulness, trying not to think about the following day. Thankful for an afternoon just to be carried.

Monday's view

Then Monday came. Full of insurance questions and talk of radioactive materials, decay, damage. Risk management. Waiting in admitting. Waiting for a room. Waiting for doctors. Waiting, waiting, waiting. With each step of the process, our anxiety grew. We joked with each other to cover our frustration and fear. I had only to stretch to feel the slight ache in my shoulders, reminding me of the previous day that seemed so far away.   And when I left the hospital without my husband, I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and cried. Leaving him there to be cared for when that had been my job was harder than I thought. What if they get his diet wrong? What if he has a reaction? What if he is scared? Lonely? What if this treatment doesn't work? Yesterday's gentle current was gone and I was being caught up in the rush of uncertainty. But I stopped myself before I could be swept away by the swiftness of the unknown. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply and exhaled thankfulness once again, thinking about our previous day. A gift from a gracious God. Remembering the beautiful blooms of the Morning glories, I was thankful that if we choose to do so, we can carry our altars everywhere. Even when we have to drive away.

Peace be with you

Last week I attended my first yoga class. Like real deal at a studio with a real teacher. Walking in felt a lot like walking into class on the first day of kindergarten. Which is not necessarily the best feeling when you are dealing with fear. Which in all honesty, is why I found myself there to begin with.

At the beginning of class, the teacher encouraged us to let our mind settle on a word, our intention for that hour. What we came there seeking, what we needed. I very quickly settled on peace. Throughout the class when positions became difficult (and boy, did they become difficult) she encouraged us to call on that word. She also reminded us to breathe. With every motion, she instructed us to inhale and exhale. This seemed a little silly at first, but when things quickly became difficult, I found myself forgetting to breathe. When I found myself in a bind, the first thing I did was stop breathing. I cut off my own oxygen and made it even harder.

I thought a lot about this on my way home that night. Today marks one month until my husband's surgery. A surgery that will tell us whether or not he has cancer. Until now, I had also thought of it as the event that would let me finally be able to breathe again. One more month is a long time to hold your breathe when you have been holding it since Christmas. It is a long time to never feel the deep cleansing breath of being fully engaged in the world around you. It is a long time to want for something desperately, but to have to wait for it. But I'm learning that waiting feels a lot less like a spectator sport and a lot more like yoga now that I'm learning to breath through the hard parts. It isn't easy, it takes practice because it is a practice.