Happy anniversary to Klaus and me!

Today is a lot of days - Reformation Day for you Protestants out there, Halloween for pretty much everyone. But today is for me and my pup a very special day:

Our first anniversary!

Yes, one year ago today, I added my sweet, cuddly, bull-headed rascal of a Dachshund to my life. I was at that time recovering from a different surgery (my re-excision, a sort of tag onto my lumpectomy to be sure that the cancer they had removed really wouldn't come back... which it didn't, but it did call a few of its friends to set up camp!). Poor little guy had been moved out of at least two other families, and so at first he wasn't quite sure what to make of me.

But soon enough, we had become friends.

And the kisses haven't stopped since.

Now I have been grateful through another diagnosis, two more major surgeries, a move to a new house, and two weddings to the love of my life, to have this little hot dog of love in my life, in OUR lives. The way he curls his long, slim body so tightly into a ball, the way he always has to be touching at least one human, if not two (and miraculously finds a way to do this even when I'm walking), they way he wedges himself into tight spots, the way his ears flap out like the flying nun when he's looking up at me, The way his lip gets stuck on his gums and he looks like Elvis, the way he seems a little proud when his ears are folded back, the way he way he puts his paws up on the shins of anyone he just meets as if to say, "Nice to meet you, now please start loving on me," the way he slowly (as if reluctantly) makes his way toward rolling on his side and then his back so a new person can delight in giving him a belly rub (he's such a hedonist)... He is an excellent caretaker, physically and emotionally, even if he is stubborn as an ox. I just love this dog so much.

Michael and I have been laughing lately at Klaus's bedtime routine. Even though we have told him time and again that being in the humans' bed is a privilege and not a right, he has as many times shown us that he and his 12 pounds will have the final say. If we don't put him in the bed right away, he whines and whines until we do. And the fact is, he is a really good cuddler, so we don't mind having him in bed, even though he believes that one third of the bed is for us, one third is for him, and one third is also for him. So when it comes time to put him in the bed (he can't get up himself), it becomes a race: Michael and I try to get comfortable and scootch into the middle of the bed as soon as possible, while Klaus uses his tiny legs to swim through the comforter and pillows and make it to the center of the bed with his own little head on the pillow between us. This, he believes, is his rightful position. Once it has been achieved, he lowers his center of gravity even more than it already is, crouching and becoming dead weight so he is difficult to move. He is also able to relocate quite swiftly in this position - we call this "rat mode." Occasionally he wins this first battle. When he doesn't, it is not yet a loss for him - he then burrows his way under the covers (not minding that he is sticking his cute little hairless Dachshund butt into our faces), and settles in, usually nestled into the bend behind my knee. His breed was built to burrow, and Dachshunds have the ability to dig themselves deeply into a hole for days at a time, so it is nothing for him to stay under the covers in the center of the bed all night long, until the alarm goes off. Then, with a shake of his giant ears, and a downward-facing dog stretch, he is ready for the day.

God, I love this dog.

Stay tuned, as Michael and I are working on a remake of Sir Mix-a-Lot's hit, "Baby Got Back" for Dachshunds. ("I like long backs and I cannot lie! You doggie owners can't deny... Doggie got BACK!")

And so on this Halloween and anniversary day, I will leave you with one more image of my little boy: 

GET A-LONG LITTLE DOGGIE!

Replacing fears with fears, or, "Frenemies."

I dated a guy in seminary named M. It was only less than a year that we dated, but it got pretty serious pretty quickly. It became clear about halfway into the relationship, however, that he had a lot of unresolved issues, and they came out in some behaviors that were very hurtful to me and to others. The unhealthiness of the relationship became clearer and clearer, but I was resistant to letting go. This relationship was familiar to me, and I had invested so much in it, and I wasn't about to just give it all up without a fight. Finally, though, I came to my senses and broke up with him, cut him out of my life. I knew it was the right thing to do, but I was devastated. He was bad for me, I knew, but at least he was familiar. Six weeks later, I found someone to fill the void - a very nice guy who also wasn't all that good for me, but at least he treated me well.

Okay, now fast forward to this past week. I have for the past 14 years had the fear of cancer hanging over my head. For 13 years, that fear was on the back burner, but the past year it was been very in my face, a ticking time bomb on which I was trying to keep a one step lead. On this past Wednesday, when I was told, "No cancer" (with the implied, "And essentially no more risk of cancer"), and then also got my drains out when I had expected to have them for another week at least... That risk with which I had lived for 14 years suddenly disappeared. No more cancer. No more drains to manage. It was all suddenly gone.

Turns out, I wasn't prepared for that.

Fears can become a comfort, can't they? So can unhealthy behaviors. Even if you know something is bad for you or dangerous, at least it is familiar. After I broke up with M, I felt devastated and empty and wanted to fill that emptiness as soon as possible. And I think something similar happened after I "broke up" with my risk for cancer. My feeling about all that I had been carrying needed to be transferred elsewhere.

Where did it go? It found a home in another piece of the same puzzle. When my risk for cancer went away, I also was immediately struck with the realization that for the first time in my life, getting pregnant is a real and joyful possibility. There is nothing in my way now: I'm married, we're financially stable, we have room in our home, and we have no health concerns (that we know of) keeping us from trying. I have been looking forward to this moment for my whole life.

But now, suddenly, it terrified me. The realization donned on me in the doctor's office as a positive thing, but as we walked out of the hospital, I kept noticing all the ailments people were dealing with - wheelchairs, illnesses, injuries, syndromes... All of these things and more could happen to OUR children! My cancer is gone, but who is to say I won't pass on my predisposition for cancer to our children, and have to do this all over again as the caretaker? Who in their right mind would willingly bring children into a world where so much can go wrong?

In my heart, I know that it will be worth it, whatever happens. And it's not like this is the first time I have considered this. The suddenness of my fear seemed to come from the realization that now that I don't have to worry about my own stuff anymore, I need to transfer that fear to something else, just as I so quickly found another boyfriend who was not good for me but at least was a nice person. (Dare I say, this is my "rebound" fear?) Fears can become a comfort, and if a fear is taken away, we may feel inclined to quickly find something else to be afraid of. In my case, it is having children - cruelly, the very thing I hoped would be the joy at the end of this cancer journey.

Recognizing this is an important step. What it has really highlighted for me and for us is that I'm not really done with healing from cancer. I mean, I'm still physically healing for sure - I'm still in a fair amount of pain (though finally off narcotics), not yet driving, and lacking the full mobility and strength of my dominant arm. I have a couple weeks yet of medical leave. More to the point, my heart is still healing. I'm still seeking the wholeness I mentioned in a previous post. Our lives have been in crisis mode for over a year; our hearts have been traumatized. I wish that the steps of healing were as clear for hearts as they are for surgery (drains are out, I can complete these exercises, I am down to this many pain meds, etc.), but of course they aren't.

These next weeks and months, I will of course attend to the needs of my bodily healing. But Michael and I will both need to be vigilant in caring for our hearts' healing, as well, so that we can replace those old fears - not with new fears, but with joy and hope. God grant us the insight, perseverance, and courage for this task!

Good news all around, and the funny thing about feelings

"No cancer in that breast!"

These were the first words the nurse said to me when she came in for my post-op appointment today.

The words didn't come as a surprise to me - the mammogram and ultrasound hadn't shown anything, nor had Dr. Skinner suspected anything at the time of surgery, nor had there been anything suspicious at any point along the way.

"Good!" I replied, because I knew I was supposed to... but for whatever reason, my first feeling was apologetic. I wanted to say to my breast, "I'm so sorry I had to do that to you! You never did anything wrong to me! You were good and healthy and maybe you could have even fed my children someday, but I attacked you. I'm so sorry about that."

Aren't feelings weird? The appointment went on quite normally - I told her about how much more painful this recovery has been, she told me I am vitamin D deficient like just about everyone who lives north of Georgia, and put me on mega doses of vitamin D for the next 12 weeks. (Everyone: take vitamin D supplements - deficiency is linked to several different cancers, and most people are deficient!) When Dr. Skinner came in, she said, "It was so nice to finally have a cancer-free pathology report for you!" I said, "You could have found just a little bit of DCIS and I would have been okay with that... it would have made it worth it." She laughed and said, "You know, even as I saw it, I thought, 'She's gonna be disappointed!'" She knows me so well.

I mean, I'm happy. I really am. As Dr. Skinner said, "You're done with cancer!" Yes. They will still put me on "breast cancer watch," but I can finally move forward in my life, in our life. I guess I'm still holding onto some of that wondering - "what if it was all for naught?" Of course there's no way to know if I would have gotten cancer in my right breast, and we took the smartest, safest route, that will best allow us to move on. But...  you just gotta wonder.

After our good news at the breast care center, we went on to the plastic surgeon. We started with the PA, and after looking at my record of how much surgical fluid my drains have been collecting, she said they could remove BOTH DRAINS! Now THIS was good news, no two ways about it. I hate those drains so much. They hurt, they're gross, they hurt, they're awkward, and they hurt. My life is suddenly so much better without those drains. I feel instantly energized. Unfortunately, with the loss of the drains also comes that command from the doctor to really lie low for three days, limiting my activity as much as possible. So just when I suddenly want to sing and dance about my freedom from drains, I have to lie low. Drat!

Even though the day was filled with good news, I am finding these appointments brought up a lot of emotion in me, and I am still processing it. Perhaps there will be more posts about that in the coming days. Until then, celebrate with me - I am for realsies cancer- and drain-free! Woo-hooooo!

Mastectomy #2 recovery is going well!

One thing I forgot to mention in my recounting of mastectomy day:
Last time I had a mastectomy, I made a playlist of songs that would help me get through my mastectomy - with themes of everything from "you're beautiful" ("Just the Way You Are" by Bruno Mars) to songs highlighting other assets ("Baby Got Back") to break-up songs ("Too Late, Baby") to songs of empowerment ("I Will Survive"). Then for my boob farewell party, I condensed the long list into a CD-sized playlist, and gave them out as party favors, inviting people to decorate the CDs like boobs. I had a few left over, so I decorated one for Dr. Skinner and presented it to her at my post-op. She joked that she would play it in the OR. Well my big news is, it wasn't a joke! Dr. Skinner and also one of the residents said they played my mastectomy playlist not just during my surgery, but all day in the OR! And the resident said it was better than their usual Pandora station they listen to. I feel like I've really made it. :)

But on to the present. I'm doing pretty well, in some ways recovering much more quickly than I did last time, which is great news! I feel more energetic and don't find myself as exhausted after small tasks like walking down the stairs. My mobility is also better, which I attribute to not having had lymph nodes taken. Almost right away I could raise my arm to probably a 60 degree angle, where it took at least a week to do that last time. So that makes getting around and functioning quite a bit easier (though if people are around, I still ask them to do things like get my glass or turn on the TV, to limit how much I have to get up and down).

On the other hand, I think my pain is in some ways worse this time. I had more pain meds in the hospital. And by this time last mastectomy I was off the major pain killers and just taking Advil, mostly because the heavy meds were upsetting my stomach a lot. But this time I am still on Vicodin, and still feeling a fair amount of pain, especially at the end of the day and first thing in the morning. It's bearable - mostly it only hurts when I move, and when I'm lying down still it's only about 0-2 on a scale of 10. But I certainly notice it. The good news is that I was given a muscle relaxant this time, which I think has helped immensely with my ability to sleep. I have been sleeping quite soundly, and with only a couple exceptions, I've not had to wake Michael in the night to help me get comfortable again.

My parents spent the first week with me, caring for me especially when Michael had to be at work or taking care of other personal things, and that has been great. My dad flew home yesterday so he could teach a class today; my mom is staying another week yet, which I'm happy about. It is good to have the company, but also good to have another set of hands around to help me with things, to pick up the house, to put meals together, to do laundry, stuff like that. I'm so grateful to have such wonderful parents as these, so willing to show their love in words and actions. Both of Michael's parents have also been checking in with us to see how I/we are doing. We are truly blessed!

Perhaps you are wondering: but what about your heart, Johanna?

I'll tell you, I am so much more at peace about this now, after the fact, than I was going into it. Not once since surgery have I cried over the loss of my breast (except for a few pain-induced tears). Honestly, I haven't really thought much about it - I'm too focused on healing my body to think much about the state of my heart these days. But I don't think the peace in my heart is merely due to the distraction of my body's need to heal. I really feel okay about it. I have allowed myself a few peeks down my shirt to get used to the new view, and soon I will see the full frontal view when I take a shower for the first time. So far so good. Here's hoping...

I remember feeling a similar peace after Michael and I got married. Even when you know it is the right person, there is always some fear about that huge decision: "Am I really going to want to be married to this person for my whole life? Is this person going to want to be married to me for their whole life?" But once the decision is made, the vows have been said, the rings are in place, that's it. There is no more wondering, there is only making it work. We made that commitment and now we will do everything we can to make it work. And I will make this new boob, this new reality work. There is some peace in determination, I guess, and certainly there is in definitiveness.

Speaking of Michael, several people have asked me how he is doing, and the answer is: he's wonderful. This has been exhausting for him, as it also has been for my parents, I'm sure, and is compounded by other things going on in his life. But even with everything his heart is carrying, he is the most present, loving, affectionate, understanding, compassionate, caring, and generous husband I could hope for. Any time I apologize for waking him up or making him do something for me, he says, "It's okay, love, that's why I'm here." What a good man he is.

Thank you to all of you who have sent cards, flowers, or food, and will continue to do so in the coming days. These gestures mean so much to us! And thank you, as always, for the prayers. We have felt these so poignantly through this experience, and are grateful to all of you for your love!

On the other side

Guess what? No more mastectomies!!

Both doctors said it went well - to the naked eye it didn't look like there was any cancer in there, and plastic surgery said they had filled up the implant as much as they could, though not quite as much as the first one, so I will need to endure some stretching. But otherwise, he said, it went well and looks just like it is supposed to.

As I said in my last post, there were some things that went more smoothly this time around and some things a little less smoothly. The pre-surgery stuff was pretty straightforward. I even ended up with one of the same nurses I had last time, who also, as it turns out, lives in our neighborhood. When I had my IV and was all set up for surgery, my whole family was allowed to come in - mom, dad, and Michael. As we were given instructions about pre-anesthesia, the nurse said only one or two could go in. My mom said, "How about two and a pastor?" (The one time my dad was not quick to respond, "I'm retired!") The nurse looked unsure, and my mom said, "Well last time, we all went." That's not true - only she went with me last time. But she convinced the nurse, and all three of them were able to come with me to pre-anesthesia! And my friend Abby also came, in the role of my pastor, and she said a prayer with us before I was wheeled off to surgery. Quite a crowd!

We met lots of nice people in pre-anesthesia. We really have been consistently impressed with the medical staff at Strong hospital. We saw both Dr. Skinner and Dr. Langstein, as well as an assortment of residents and nurses who would also be present in the OR. I really like that they introduce themselves to me, so at least I have had some connection to the people who will cut me open and take off a body part. It's a pretty intimate time. Good to know some names.

Dr. Skinner asked, "Are you ready?" and I said, "I guess," and she said, "As ready as you'll ever be?" and I said, "Yup." She said, "Just think, soon this will all be behind you," and I said, gesturing to my chest, "Well, it certainly won't be in front of me anymore!" She liked that one.

About 7:40, I gave everyone hugs and was wheeled into the OR. I continued to feel fairly calm - after my breakdown the night before, I sort of worried I might freak out and say, "Never mind! I'm not going to do it!" In the other surgeries I remember falling asleep - I don't this time. I was gazing around the OR, trying to figure out who everyone was when I could only see their eyes...

And then I was waking up. That part I unfortunately remember very well, because I was in quite a lot of pain. I had also feared that I might wake up from surgery and start crying at the realization of what I had just done. Well, I did cry, whimpering and tearful, but they were tears of pain and discomfort. I might have said something to someone about it, or I may have dreamt that, but soon I was asleep again, and somehow ended up in a hospital room.

Yes, a real room this time, with a bathroom I only hared with one other person instead of the whole unit! What luxury. I felt like I had to wait forever in there until my family came - I called them all on the hospital phone trying to get them in faster. But at long last, they were there, all smiles. We were all together for a while, then Michael went home to care for Klaus, and then he came back my parents went out for dinner. Tag teaming it.

I remembered last time everything that was going at this point. Michael had just found out Daisy was in the dog hospital, having had some seizures (and he had to put her down the next morning). I had just found out that I was no longer able to be approved for the loan to buy our house (this got straightened out a few days later, obviously). I had asked for some Xanax so I could sleep - too much anxiety! This time everything was much lower key. Everyone was calm. Even when I got up for the bathroom for the  first time - the experience that had been so excruciating last time - was fairly easy! Less nausea and dizziness. If hadn't been connected to an IV, I could have made it to and from the bathroom all alone by the second time. I was feeling pretty darn good, considering!

That is, except the pain. I don't know if it was more this time or not, but I feel like I took a lot more drugs. I had patch behind my ear for nausea, and this was the first time I didn't throw up (though I thought I might a couple times). I was taking three different kinds of pain medication, including morphine, the prospect of which terrified me at first, but I was assured it was not enough to get addicted or put me in any danger. I got a muscle relaxer, which really helped my back pain (I had a major knot because I am unable to stretch on that side). Because of all the fluids I was getting, I had to pee every hour, which kept me moving all night long - in retrospect this probably helped me feel good sooner because I wasn't lying around getting stiff. Despite all this help, I kept naming my pain as 2-3 when I was stationary, but 7 or 8 when I was trying to move. So they were a little reluctant to let me go until that was under control. But I was determined!

When my family came back Wednesday morning, they all agreed I was looking very chipper (despite having woken at every hour the night before!), so we put some plans in motion to get me discharged. After all the paperwork was done, they gave me a flu shot, too, and then wheeled me out to the car. We got home about 3:00. Felt good to be home!

Until it didn't feel good. We had ordered pizza, and made a big salad, and my mom baked chocolate chip cookies, and my uncle came over, and we were going to have a real dinner at the table and everything. But then my stomach started hurting so badly. Was it the pain meds I had taken? I had eaten some crackers with, but was it enough? Was it gas? What was it? It felt like an angry animal in my gut, and I wanted so badly to throw it up and get out of there whatever was hurting so badly. Again, I was nearly in tears for the pain, and my poor family didn't know what to do! I carried my vomit bucket around with me, in hopes of being inspired, and as I looked down into it, I saw there were two little dimples in the bottom that looked just like nipples. Talk about insult to injury!

I never did throw up last night, but I did finally start to feel better enough to have a couple bites of pizza. But getting ready for bed, I was a major Grumpy-pus. I was in pain, but afraid to take any more meds lest they do my stomach in. I wanted to lie down, but the bed was a mess, and I couldn't fix it with my left hand alone. I didn't even have the strength to plug in my phone. Crab Apple.

But Michael was a very good nurse and got me everything I needed. Once I was situated in bed, he rolled over facing me and held my arm, which was as much contact as my pain could handle. And I loved him so much for that. I said, "I'm so sorry. This is not what you signed up for." And he said, "Yes it is - it's exactly what I signed up for! For better, for worse, in sickness and in health. I'm here for you for all of it, my love!" I do love that man. Then he added, "Plus, we'll get to get tattoos together!" Indeed we will!

I slept all right last night - I even woke a couple times and because I was actually comfortable, I forgot for just a moment that I had had surgery. Of course, as soon as I moved, I remembered, but having those couple of moments really helped.

Now I'm just hanging out in the quiet house with my parents and Klaus. Mom made my breakfast in bed, dad brought me flowers, Klaus is being his adorable, snuggly self but keeping his distance from my wound, and Michael is taking a half day from work, so he'll be here this afternoon. And I still feel fairly calm about all this. It's done, and I will heal, and we will move forward. We'll see if I can maintain this calm even after I shower and see my new boob for the first time in all its glory. Stay tuned!

Sighs too deep for words

Well, I made it. I'm home on the couch. Now it is only forward!

There were some things about this experience that went more smoothly than the first, and some that went less smoothy. As you likely gathered from some recent blogs, I was already not going into this surgery in the best of spirits. But I was holding it together.

Until the night before.

I recently bought a new android phone and a new MacBook. When I switched from an Apple phone to an Android, I was worried about how they would sync with my other Mac products (iPad and MacBook). The main problem I have had was with texting/messaging. Any time someone sent me a text from iPhone, it would come via iMessage, which meant it came to my computer and my iPad, but not my phone. I knew I would want to be able to send and receive texts before and after surgery, because those little check-ins from friends and family can make such a difference. So Monday night, I tried to figure out the problem and fix it. I found a simple solution, which  required my Apple ID. I entered it... and it said the ID wasn't valid. I tried again, and again, and then it got locked. This is the same ID I have used since 2005 when I got my first laptop. I had used it earlier in the week. Why on earth wouldn't it work? Even the security questions that would help me receive the right information were questions I didn't know how to answer (like, "What is your favorite car you have owned?" when I didn't even own a car when I set up the ID in the first place). I was getting so frustrated, I started to cry. Soon tears turned into swearing. "I got a new phone and computer so things would work again, not so they would do this!!" I shouted at Michael. I tried everything, and finally, sobbing, I gave up to go upstairs and get ready for bed.

I can think of one other time in my life when I cried as hard as I did that Monday night. I felt like if I could just cry hard enough, or loudly enough, or deeply enough, then all the pain inside me would find a way out. Of course, it occurred to me, I wasn't crying about technology. I did want to receive those text messages that wouldn't come through, but much more than that, my uncooperative technology was only the catalyst unleashing a year's worth of struggle and frustration with this stupid disease. I said to Michael as I stomped around getting ready for bed, "This night was not supposed to go like this." I had plans of relaxing, enjoying time with family and then just being with Michael, being able to cuddle and enjoy human touch for the last time in a few weeks. (I remember last time how hard it was not to be able to share any physical affection because of the pain.) Now instead of enjoying some quiet and peaceful time, I was as upset as I have ever been, crying, yelling, swearing, and more crying.

Poor Michael. He wasn't sure exactly how to handle this rare side of me. I said all I needed was for him to hold me and let me cry, which he did splendidly. Soon enough, I was able to fall asleep.

And soon thereafter, it was time to wake up, to get the hospital by 5:45. To my surprise, I found myself to be in much higher spirits in the morning, and I realized how incredibly cleansing and necessary my intense cry had been. I needed everything in my heart to get out somehow. In his letter to the Romans, Paul writes, "the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words" (8:26). I have always loved that image, but this was perhaps the first time I really experienced it. I have struggled with prayer during all of this, which is why I have been so grateful for all the prayers other people are praying for me. I simply haven't known what prayers to pray. I have tried praying for peace and acceptance, for a speedy recovery, etc., but none of it has felt very genuine. It wasn't until I was able to offer my prayer in sighs too deep for words, with the help of the Holy Spirit, that I was truly able to find any peace about this.

Tuesday morning, I felt fine, even in high spirits. In my hospital room afterward, I felt good, like I really had accepted this reality. I have seen only a glimpse of my new boob, but I had no emotional reaction to it. It just... was. And despite still feeling a fair amount of physical pain, the pain in my heart has subsided dramatically. 

Thank you, Holy Spirit. You've done it for me again.

This is one the stained glass windows in the Taize sanctuary in France.

A new cancer quilt

When I underwent treatments for Hodgkin's Disease in 1999, my mom and I wanted to work on a quilt together. With my mom's professional quilter friend Alex's help, we ended up making a quilt of what Alex dubbed "dinosaur snot green" and purple. I took that quilt to college with me, and everywhere else I've gone except Slovakia, but even then my mom used the leftover hearts we made and put them together in a mini quilt which she sent me, and which soaked up many homesick tears that year. (The mini quilt is now in my office at church.)

Last year, on the day of my first biopsy, my mom also came to visit. She didn't know I was going to have the biopsy until she got there. She was there for a quilting seminar (with said professional quilter friend). But mom was obviously a wreck thinking that her little girl might have cancer again. That night, after my biopsy, we were both out at Lake Ontario, at my aunt and uncle's house, watching the beautiful sunset, and my photographer uncle took some fabulous shots of it. The next day I learned that the biopsy was negative. I texted my mom immediately, who called me back in tears. She told me later that her first thought was, "The sun still shines!" Later, when she looked at the shots my uncle took of that sunset the night before, she thought they would make a great quilt - and inspired by my good news from the doctor, she thought she would call it, "The sun still shines."

Of course, it wasn't too long afterward that they found something else in my breast, and I did end up having cancer. And then that got removed, but I ended up having cancer again, and so I had a mastectomy. My mom came to NY for the surgery, and to occupy herself and process all that was happening, she worked on a quilt, based on that photograph. By the time she went home, she had finished two quilt tops.

Tonight, on the eve of mastectomy #2, we all had dinner out on the lake again, at my aunt and uncle's house. After dinner my mom slipped away and came back announcing she had a presentation to make. She told the story I just told you, and then pulled out of her bag a completed quilt, saying to me with a smile, "The sun still shines!" Tears came readily, and I got up to give her a big hug. It is beautiful, just perfect.

I think tomorrow will be okay after all.

"The sun still shines" plus the photo that served as inspiration.

The road to health

This is the article I wrote for my churches' November newsletter.

On October 13, the last Sunday I was with you before taking yet another medical leave, the Gospel text was the story of the ten lepers. You remember the story – ten lepers, people isolated from community and enduring a horrible and at times disfiguring disease, approach Jesus asking for mercy and release from this plague. Jesus heals them without fanfare, telling them simply to go show themselves to the priest, who could declare them “clean” (leprosy was also a disease that made one liturgically unclean). As they go on their way, they find that they are, indeed, healed of their disease. Nine continue on their way, but one turns back toward Jesus, falls to his knees in a posture of worship, and begins thanking Jesus – for making him clean, for taking away the physical and spiritual pain, for giving him his life back.

Preachers will tell you that they often came up with just the right sermon on Sunday night, hours after worship. It is in that residual reflection in which the Holy Spirit finds a way to keep working in our hearts – usually this post-sermon is the one meant especially for the pastor’s heart. Such was the case with me and the story of the ten lepers, the story of the one leper who returned to give thanks.

I write this on the eve of my second (and final!) mastectomy in four months. Though I have tried to maintain a positive attitude through this ordeal, and been mostly successful, it has been wearing me pretty thin. Though this particular surgery is prophylactic, I consider it my last “treatment” for this nagging threat (or reality) of breast cancer. After these months of emotional and physical travails, I am eager to put it behind me and not look back – just like the nine lepers did when they were finally declared healed. Let’s be done, already! I’ve put in my time! I can understand how, in their exhaustion of having fought the pain and neglect and isolation of their disease, they would be wrapped up only in their relief, and forget to acknowledge their savior.

And yet, it is the one former leper who turns back to offer his gratitude to whom Jesus says, “Your faith has made you whole.” Wholeness – it is something beyond healing. Healing happens on the outside. Bodies heal. Wholeness, though, has to do with the heart, the soul. Wholeness happens when we recognize that we have experienced God. Wholeness happens when, tempting as it may be to continue down the road of health and never look back, we instead do like the one leper, and find a way to turn toward God and say, “Thank you.”

By the time you read this, I will be two weeks post surgery, and hopefully experiencing speedy bodily healing. But I have been seeking wholeness for some time already, and I will continue it now by saying to God and to all of you: thank you. Thank you for showing me the love of Christ, for encouraging me to think more deeply about life and faith, for allowing me to be vulnerable with you, for loving me through a terrifically difficult – while also very joyful – year. Thank you, people of Bethlehem and St. Martin, and thank God for you.

                                                                                                God’s Peace,

                                                                                                Pastor Johanna

Scratched floor.

Michael and I have some beautiful wood floors in our new house in a couple of the bedrooms upstairs. When we first moved in, we just dumped the furniture in roughly the right spot, but once we settled in a bit, we thought more carefully about arrangement. Most of this happened right before our Rochester wedding, when we had a couple people staying with us and their rooms needed to be set up - and when we were tried, stressed, and rushed. When we went to move a dresser, I thought I could just shove it along the floor rather than wait for Michael to put on shoes and help me lift it. After I'd shoved it about two feet, I discovered that I was putting a good sized gash in the beautiful wood floors.

(This is not actually our floor - we covered up our scratch with a bed.)

I do stupid stuff like that all the time. Physically destructive mistakes that I desperately wish to take back after they happened. Knowing I can't undo it, I just play the event over in my head again and again, hoping for a different outcome that never comes. Stupid mistakes that result in scratched CDs, ripped clothing, various broken items - in the scheme of things, pretty small and inconsequential destruction, but even though I try to tell myself that, their happening nags at me.

Sometimes I feel that way when I look in the mirror and see my one fake breast. Not that it looks bad - I am regularly told by folks in the plastic surgeon office that it is "perfect," as perfect as a reconstructed breast can be. Still I get that feeling like I made a careless mistake and now there is a big gash in the beautiful wood floor, except instead of an irreparable gash in the floor of my new house, there is an irreparable gash in my breast.

It's hardly fair to even say, because again, the fake breast looks good, for a fake breast. Nor is it the result of a mistake - I know it was the right decision to get rid of that breast. But maybe the reason this has been on my mind lately is because removing the next breast is not as obvious as the decision to remove the left. Yes, I know it is the right decision, and I know this is the time when it makes the most sense to do it - financially, emotionally, practically. But I guess there is a part of me that is afraid I will see myself in the mirror after this surgery and get that same sick feeling I get when I replay the incident that resulted in a scratched wood floor: I did this thing, I can't take it back, I can't undo it, and I will never be the same again.

Lots of people have been asking me how I am doing. 33 hours before my second (and last) mastectomy in four months, I'm doing all right. I'm fine with having surgery. I'm fine with enduring the recovery. The new reality that will result from said surgery, however, is something with which I have not completely come to grips. Obviously. Sort of like I'm mildly in denial, and I will just wake up on Tuesday around lunchtime and not have any more boobs.

I guess I'm okay with that. This is as much as I can swallow at once.

Sermon: Giving Thanks and Being Whole (Oct. 13, 2013)

Pentecost 21C
October 13, 2013

Luke 17:11–19

         This week Michael and I had someone come and paint one of the rooms in our house, the room that will become my sewing room. The painter is a friend of a friend, a really good guy, and a devout Christian. I got to talking with him one day, and before I knew it he was sharing his conversion story with me. He used to be pretty heavily into drugs, both using and dealing, a heavy drinker, and an absent husband and father. But then one night he started to have a pretty intense reaction to whatever he had been using, and, not wanting his friends to see him in this vulnerable state, he stumbled home. As he fumbled for his keys, he felt like he was burning up, like needles all over his body, though his skin was cold to the touch, and he couldn’t see or hear anything – until he heard, clear as day: “Flush your drugs.” He couldn’t believe it! Those were worth a lot of money. But he heard it again: “Flush your drugs.” He found his key and let himself in and did as he was told. As he flushed the last of his drugs down the toilet, suddenly his vision returned, and he could hear again. The pain left his body and he felt new – even the air smelled different, he said. And then, he told me, he dropped to his knees, there in the bathroom, and started thanking Jesus.

As he shared his story with me, there in my future sewing room, I couldn’t help but think of the ten lepers – or more specifically of the one leper, the Samaritan, who, when he discovered he was healed, turned back, fell to his knees, and started thanking Jesus. That is an appropriate response to such an extraordinary gift and blessing, right? To be delivered suddenly from a life spiraling downward because of drugs, or from life as a double outcast – leper and Samaritan – with a disease so bad that even your family will have nothing to do with you… Yes, it would seem that falling to your knees in thanksgiving is exactly the right response.

I think we all know that gratitude is important. Every time I read one of those articles that is called something like, “Ten Traits of Happy People,” or, “Eight Ways to be Healthier and Happier,” gratitude is at the top of the list. Even Oprah Magazine did a huge spread a few years back on the remarkable and positive effects of gratitude on our lives.

Sometimes gratitude is very easy to practice. When things go well, when a new child or grandchild was born healthy and beautiful, when a promotion at work comes through, when a marriage is blessed, gratitude comes very naturally. The struggle is when life isn’t offering us much to grateful for. When a disease doesn’t respond to treatment. When a son doesn’t return from war. When a job is lost, or a house, or an important relationship. It is easy for the leper, or our painter to fall to their knees and give thanks, when grace is so obvious, but what about when healing doesn’t happen, when brokenness persists? In these cases, those words that Jesus says to the leper, “You faith as made you well,” do not sound like good news. They sound like salt in the wound. If the leper was made well, why not me?

         Those words, “Your faith has made you well,” can be translated several ways. The Greek word for “made you well” can also be translated, “made you whole.” What a richness that adds to the possibility of being made well! See, the other nine lepers were made clean, too, as Jesus points out. But only this one returned to give thanks. Only this one was made whole. And it is to him that Jesus says, “Your faith has made you whole.”

         It seems this is not so much a story about healing as it is a story about faith and wholeness. And since it is the one leper who returns to give thanks who is told that his faith has made him whole, it would also seem that gratitude has a lot to do with faith and wholeness.

         We talked last week about some things that faith is, and some things that faith isn’t. Today we could build on that by saying that faith is not something you have so much as it is something that you live – and to live faith is to give thanks, to practice gratitude. Living a life of gratitude, and hence a life of faith is what has brought this Samaritan man with leprosy from the depths of his disease and his social isolation into a place where he is made deeply well and whole.

         Living a life of gratitude: it sounds simple enough, but it takes practice, even in the best of times. If I asked you right now to list five things you are thankful for, you would probably all include one or more of the following: your family, your friends, your home, your job, your health. Those are big things that I hope you are always thankful for. But living a life of gratitude goes deeper than that – such a life finds gratitude in more specific things. So try this – everyone think of one specific, thing for which you are thankful, something other than family, friends, job, home, or health. I’ll give you a moment…

         Would anyone like to share?

         Last November, I saw some people doing something on Facebook called “30 days of thankfulness.” Instead of giving thanks on just one Thursday in November, people posted in their Facebook status every day one thing they were thankful for. It sounded like a good practice, so I tried it. It was easy at first. But after a while, especially on days when nothing extraordinary happened, I had to get creative so I wouldn’t repeat. I was thankful for pumpkin seeds, or for a working heater, or for the ability to call my friends whenever I wanted to. I had to search specifically for something to be grateful for. And then I had to articulate it, sharing it with others. In doing this, I found my attention was less on myself, and more on the many blessings around me. And when I found so many blessings around me, I also found myself trusting God more and myself less – because there was no way I could possibly provide for myself the beautiful color of the leaves, or the way a child smiles at me, or the love that greets me from a wonderful husband and a wiggly, whiney little Dachshund when I walk in the door each night.

         That’s what happens when we practice gratitude: we learn to rely on and trust utterly in God. And, when we notice things to be thankful for, we also notice God’s presence within all the various circumstances of life. And when we do that – trust God and notice God’s presence in all things – we live our faith.

         In this way, Jesus’ words to the former leper, “your faith has made you whole,” can be good news for us all after all – for the healed and the still sick, for the promoted and the unemployed, for the safe and the endangered, for the put-together and the broken. Prayers of thanksgiving, you see, heal the soul, such that whatever physical circumstance the pray-er endures becomes less all-encompassing. Prayers of thanksgiving bring wholeness. It is the gratitude the leper expresses that saves him, and such thankfulness is possible and available in every circumstance.

Practicing gratitude not only changes a person; it changes a congregation. When gratitude becomes a habit, it feels wrong not to give thanks. We find fulfillment in coming to worship – not to get something out it, but to have this chance to give thanks and praise in the presence of other grateful people. We find giving of our time, talents and treasures becomes not a result of arm-twisting or a fulfillment of duty, but an act of glad gratitude by joyful givers. We see not only ourselves and our own needs and longings, but we are pulled out of our sense of scarcity to see the whole world, and pray for the needs of all.

         God’s grace comes to us by many avenues. Sometimes it is as clear to us as a recovery from drug addiction, or healing from illness. Sometimes it is as apparent as a gorgeous sunset. Yet sometimes it appears to us as strange and incomprehensible as a man hanging on a cross. Because God can express grace to us by such unlikely means, Jesus’ statement that “your faith has made you well” is no longer hard to swallow for those of us whose bodies or spirits are still broken. It becomes instead a description of a life of blessing for the church and for each of us. As we go on our way, we rejoice and give thanks, for in giving thanks for all things, in all circumstances, we see that God is, after all, in all things.

         Let us pray. God of grace, we sometimes find it difficult to give thanks – when we are broken, sad, tired, angry, or sick. Help us to remember that your grace comes to us even from a cross, so help us also to give you thanks in all the circumstances of life. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Pre-op Part II: plastic surgeon

Today I went to the plastic surgeon for my pre-op. For a mastectomy with immediate reconstruction, such as I am having, there are two parts, two surgeons, two set of risks, and two consents required. Normally I would see the plastic surgeon the day before so he could draw on me (so he will know exactly where to cut and sew), but he's out of town the day before so he will have to do it the morning of. So today was just to sign the consent.

The resident that came in to meet with me first was someone I had met before, and we recognized each other right away. He was actually the one who sewed me up after the more extensive one of my five biopsies, and we had a nice chat about how he met his wife over the pathology table, and he used to coach lacrosse. I remember liking him very much, and when I learned I would have to have a mastectomy, I had hoped I would be referred to him, but I didn't realize he was a resident.

I liked him as much this time as I did the first time. He immediately said, "I think we met in Dr. Skinner's office" and proceeded to ask me about my church, and my husband, and all these details about my life. I was very impressed! It is always good to really like the people performing surgery on you, and to know that I am a person to them, not just another patient.

He pulled out the consent, which said I was having reconstructive surgery "for treatment of an acquired absence of right breast." This struck me as very funny, and I giggled. An acquired absence? Like, I've been running errands all day and I suddenly realized it fell out of my bra, and I have no idea which store I was in when it happened. Like, I'm patting all my pockets looking for the mysteriously absent breast. Like, at roll call Ben Stein kept calling, "Right breast? Right breast? Right breast?" and painful silence was the only response.

When I giggled, the resident smiled at me. "I'm glad you can have a sense of humor about this," he said. "It's funny!" I retorted. He agreed. We went through the rest of the consent with no problems - I knew it all already, so no questions.

Then Dr. L. came in to give his piece. He asked how I was doing, and I said I wasn't thrilled about this, but was eager to get it done with and move on. He agreed that it was the right thing to do. He gave me some more details about what to expect. Nothing extraordinary, until he said, "They won't be identical. We'll get them as close as we can, but it's impossible to match them exactly." I knew this, I really did, but I guess I had convinced myself otherwise. Suddenly, nightmares of boobs pointing in opposite  directions came to mind, or one pointing up and the other out, or one cone shaped and the other round. Then when that settled down, it was just the realization that maybe I won't be able to go without a bra, just because I will need it to create symmetry. Drat! Not having to wear a bra was the one thing about this that I was stoked about!

Dr. L. affirmed again the way we had done this, making sure I'd be healthy for the wedding and fit into the dress and all. I asked if he wanted to see pictures of the dress, and whether or not he did he pretended to, and I showed everyone (resident, intern, doctor) a few pictures. The three men oooed and awwwed appropriately. They especially liked the yellow bow tie and the red shoes. I showed the picture of us kissing at the end, and said, "You're covering up the work!" (as if the wedding were all about showing off my nice new boob). This is why I love Dr. L. - because the classic plastic surgeon ego only comes out in obviously joking comments like that.

So, all in all, a fine appointment. I've given my consent all around, and off we go.

In other news, a friend shared these with me:

So, that is hopefully going to happen for my Bye-bye Boobie: Part II  party on Friday. Wish me luck!