An open love letter about my boobs

Earlier this week, I got out of the shower and was drying myself off and caught my reflection in the mirror. And a thought popped into my head that utterly surprised me: "my beautiful breasts." I stopped what I was doing, and considered what I had just thought. It was something I had never even begun to think before. But encouraged by my subconscious, I took a close look, and I decided that... I agree.

My new breasts really are lovely, even with a giant red scar across the front of each. They aren't real boobs, no, and nothing manmade ever will be. My real boobs were nice, too, for a lot of reasons, but then again, they tried to kill me. But these... as I took a closer look, I started noticing again all the subtle improvements over the old implants. They are things that wouldn't make sense to you unless you, like I, had studied each so carefully, and as I'm considering how I would word the differences, nothing sounds quite right, so I will spare you the details. The old implants, well, they did the job. They filled out my clothes. They took away what would have been a lack and replaced it with a roughly boob-shaped, skin-covered mass. They were nice, and even, and steady. But the new ones... they are kind. They are gentle. They are what you would want in a friend. They are soft, to touch, to feel and to see. They more than do the job - they do it with grace.

Even the scars as they currently exist are a thing of beauty. They remind me of myself (if I may say so without sounding conceited) - a beautiful thing, that has seen some life, and has lived to tell the tale. They bear it well, and aren't ashamed that the scars can be seen. The scars, indeed, become a part of the beauty.

I've been thinking about the next step - my long-awaited tattoo. My sister-in-law is a talented artist, and I have asked her to design the tattoo for me. It has been hard to tell her what I want, because I go back and forth between wanting to do something dramatic, and not wanting to mess up the art that Dr. Langstein has already achieved. I feel the latter even more strongly now. These breasts are not something I don't care about. I feel a strange and unexpected emotional connection to them. Dr. Langstein has said that he sees his purpose as erasing the memory of cancer from the lives of those whom it has threatened, so they can look in the mirror and not be reminded of all that has been lost, and can instead look to the future. It is a lovely purpose, and one that I see even as a sort of ministry in itself. But now, at the end of treatments, looking to the capstone of this experience (my tattoo), I'm not sure to what extent I want to forget, and to what extent I want to embrace as I walk forward.

To that end, I want my tattoo to be something that is as gentle and sweet and kind as the breast it adorns. Something to celebrate, not cover it. Something subtle and beautiful and full of life. (I am open to suggestions!)

But for now, let me just say that I am very content with my new body. Even though I'm not fully healed, and won't be for several more weeks, I can tell that the new girls and I will be very good friends indeed.

New Girls - the series finale!

I'm all done, folks! The new "girls" are in and secure in all their gummi bear splendor, I'm home from the hospital, and I'm feeling pretty darn close to normal. WOO-HOO!

Even up to the moment we arrived at the hospital, I wasn't in the mind frame that I was having surgery. It seemed to me just an item to cross off the to-do list. Having packed for the hospital four times before, I didn't even put out everything I would need carefully the night before like I had done the other times. I just put on my usual "goin' for surgery" outfit (comfy jersey pants, camisole, zip-up green hoodie, and pink and white striped fuzzy socks), since it had served me so well before, and off we went. Once in the pre-surgery area, I knew some of the folks and we waved and greeted each other. The nurse who was helping me get ready laughed at all my jokes, which is always nice. For example, they have to ask what I'm having done today, and I said, "It's a bilateral... revision... swap thing... I'm getting a new rack. Is that good enough?" and she actually doubled over laughing, then told me the actual name of the procedure, which I still couldn't tell you. Or when she noticed there was a hole in my gown right over my right "foob," she said she could get me a new gown, and I said, "Nah, that boob won't be mine for much longer, so I don't care who sees it." She liked that one, too.

Everything seemed to move fairly swiftly, and Michael was with me most of the time. The usual parade of doctors and nurses came through to ask me questions. When the two plastic surgery residents came in, one of them said, "Hey, Trouble," and grinned at me, which pretty much made my morning. Both of those residents have been great. This was the first surgery where I didn't see Dr. Skinner before, which was sad, though I was told that she did pop in to say hello afterward. Of this I have no recollection, so I must have been pretty drowsy still.

Soon enough I was brought into the OR (a different one from before), where of course I continued to joke with the doctors and nurses until I fell asleep. And then I woke up, and shortly thereafter I was moved back to the post-surgical area and Michael came in and sat with me. There was a group of folks from church who gathered to pray for me again in the lobby (how I love them!), and Michael popped in to say hello, but didn't want to leave the waiting room again in case the doctor called for him. He said Dr. Langstein had reported that everything went very smoothly, that I did great, and they are pleased with the result. Michael texted family and friends to let them know. I sat in the post-surgery area for a while, until I stopped falling asleep in the middle of sentences. I got up to go to the bathroom and was amazed how easy it was to stand and walk, compared to the two mastectomies! The nurse came with me, but I hardly needed it. I felt no nausea, no pain, just a little light-headedness from the pain meds. When I said I was ready to go, I went soon thereafter. We left at 1-something, and I said to Michael, "Boy, we got out early. I could really get a few hours in at the office." He did NOT think that was a funny joke.

Once home, I dozed on and off, and let Michael wait on me. I slept well, and even was able to sleep on my side! It took weeks before I could do that after mastectomy. The next day was also pretty chill - mostly watched TV, did a tiny bit of work, and ate a lot of jelly beans.

Last night I got the nerve to take a look at the result. For the first time, I let Michael be there at the same time that I took a full look, and I'm glad I did because as soon as I peeled my tank top down he said, "It looks great! The best boobs money can buy!" And he's right. New girls look much more natural than the old girls. They are softer, as promised (and hence more comfortable), and have a more graceful line. Even with all the permanent marker on them from the surgeon, they looked pretty darn good!

Today I was able to shower and wash off all the hospital gunk, and then take another long look at the New Me. Looking at the new girls separately, they look great, really. Aside from the gigantic glued scar across the front of each of them, you wouldn't know the difference. When I glanced up and took in the new girls along with my face, I was suddenly overwhelmed with everything that this body has been through in the past 22 months. I never thought I would see those mastectomy scars on my young, healthy body. I figured breast cancer was sometime in my future, but thought I might be in my 40s or 50s before that happened. But now here it was: my face on a body with two well done but man-made breasts with huge scars across the front. This is it.

And I'm remarkably okay with that.

Pre-op #5: body-building, the Limbo, and tattoo removal

Today is my last day with the old newbie boobies. Tomorrow I will get my new rack, my new girls. It still hasn't completely sunk in, I suppose. Maybe it's because I have had so many surgeries in so short a time, it feels like just another day in the life. Or maybe this one isn't affecting me as much because it isn't treating or preventing cancer. It is really just cosmetic - which I hate, because it makes me feel so vain. So I have to tell myself instead that it isn't so much cosmetic as it is about quality of life. My surgeon assures me that these will look and feel more real and comfortable, and that lying on my stomach will be easier. Still, I'm not very convincing to myself... I still feel vain for having what amounts to a cosmetic surgery on my breasts, which is exactly something I would never have done if said breasts hadn't threatened to kill me.

I was reminded at my consent for surgery appointment how much I enjoy the doctors I am working with. They are helpful, compassionate, kind and funny. The resident today, in a wonderfully full circle turn of events, is the very same resident who accompanied Dr. Skinner in one of my very first appointments with her, who was there in case I had any questions about the possibility of a mastectomy (at that point, I believed it would be prophylactic). He is the same guy who sewed me up after my first procedure that required stitching up afterward. I liked him so much, both times. How appropriate that he will be there for my last surgery as well. I asked him a whole bunch of questions - all kinds of things you never knew about implants and didn't know to ask. For example:

I used to be strong and could do a bunch of push-ups - the real kind. But now I can barely do ten girl push-ups. And it is uncomfortable to do things like open jars and slice bread. Will I ever be strong again, now that my chest muscles have been repurposed as boobs?

There was actually recently a grant for $25,000 given to research this very thing: strength and muscle in post-reconstruction breast cancer survivors. I can't be in the study because they need to start before surgery, and I'm at the end. But they are working on learning how women can regain strength. After 6-8 weeks, I can begin trying to rebuild those muscles, but need to avoid anything like push-ups or over my head strength exercises for now.

If I do regain some strength, will my boobs get bigger or differently shaped?
Probably not too much. A strengthened muscles may push the implant in a different way, but it probably wouldn't be to bad effect. After those few weeks have passed, there isn't really anything I can do to mess up the implants. Since I'm not planning on doing any sort of major body building (really, I just want to be able to open a stinkin' jar again!), this is probably fine for me.

If there is stray breast tissue that didn't come out at the time of the mastectomy, would it be affected by pregnancy?
Probably not noticeably. There is so little left, it is negligible.

How do you get the old implant out and the new one in?
Open the old scar (actually cutting it out and making a new, better scar), and possibly cutting through the muscle, but they would cut with the grain of the muscle, not against it. Sometimes they can slip the deflated implant out the side. Dr. Langstein tells me they will cut through the Alloderm (the cadaver skin they used with the initial reconstruction), not muscle.

How long until I can drive?
Depends. Maybe a couple days.

There were some other questions, but those were the most pressing.

I also spoke with Dr. Langstein. He took some before and after pictures, and drew on me so he would know where we started. He asked if I was pleased with what I currently look like, and I said I was fairly pleased, as far as fake boobs are concerned, and he said, "Because I think this turned out pretty well. What you have is some of my best work!" So he doesn't plan to do any adjustments, besides of course swapping the implants and cutting out the old scar (which, by the way, they send to pathology, just in case - but don't expect to find anything).

He did say that with the new, anatomically shaped implants, I will "lose some projection" because of the different distribution. I chimed in, "So you're saying I will be better at the Limbo..." He chuckled, a little thrown off, agreed that I will indeed be able to stay in the limbo game for longer, then said, "I forgot, I need to be on my game with you." He smiled and said "hold on" while he tried to think of a snappy response, but then said, "Nah, not today. Too tired. See you tomorrow!" I love him.

One other interesting thing about this appointment. Dr. Langstein said he could remove my radiation tattoos for me, specifically the one that is at the bottom of my sternum. There is a new laser technology that makes this very easy, and he could do all five of them for me if I wanted. I was surprised how resistant I was to this. I'm not sure if I want them gone. They are part of my story, like scars. I would lose the shock factor of telling people, "I have five tattoos!" (although I will gain the shock value of, "My boobs are tattooed!"). I always sort of liked that my particular tattoos almost make the sign of the cross (but I have one on my chin instead of my forehead, where the sign of the cross would actually start). This has always served as a sort of reminder that no matter what trials I may endure, I remain a child of God, marked by the cross of Christ. One last silly reason, which I told Dr. Langstein, is that I used to use that dot at the bottom of my sternum as the indication that my shirt was too low cut - if you could see the tattoo, the shirt was too low! The resident suggested I could just ask my husband, but I'm not sure he would give a very objective opinion on that matter... ;)

But joking aside, I am playing with the idea of having these removed, and I honestly feel like something would be missing. I earned those tattoos. They are a part of my story. It feels like they always have been. Although I am ready to move on from cancer, I'm not ready to deny it ever happened, and somehow doing away with all scars seems dishonest to something that has been so important to me and my formation. So, it seems a little silly, but I think I want to keep my radiation tattoos. But I'll keep considering.

Well, after a day of doing things I won't be able to do for a couple weeks (exercise, chores requiring lifting, some yard work), my husband is home. I think I will relish some time with him. See you after (my last!) surgery!

Easter Sermon: "I feel the earth move under my feet."

Easter 2014

April 20, 2014

Matthew 28:1-10

Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia!

As I was preparing for this Easter this year, I couldn’t help but think about this time last year. I remember last Easter very well. Actually, not so much Easter itself, as the week following Easter. On Monday, I had my bridal shower, on a beautiful day in my aunt and uncle’s home on Lake Ontario, surrounded by many of my friends and family. On Tuesday, my parents left Rochester and returned to their home in California. On Wednesday, I had a routine scan, a usual check-up following my little bout with cancer the previous fall. We had every reason to believe it would be clear… but the scan turned into a biopsy of some suspicious tissue. And on Thursday, while I was having lunch with some friends, I got a phone call from the doctor, and I was diagnosed with cancer. Again. For the third time.

I remember sitting at that lunch table, telling my friends what I had learned, head in hands, tears in eyes, as my Pad Thai was set down in front of me. Here I had been planning my wedding, and celebrating with friends, and getting excited about starting a family soon with the love of my life. And suddenly, everything changed. Everything was different. Plans had to change. Major surgery was on the horizon. Dreams were put on hold. My heart, my world had been shaken.

An emotional earthquake. These things happen, don’t they? I am sure you all have your own stories of times when the things you were sure of were suddenly challenged, when you felt that you no longer stood on solid ground. Or times when everything you had built and were comfortable with was suddenly changed. Or times when your heart was ripped in two and nothing was as it should be and you no longer could tell which way was the right way. An earthquake. If you have made it this far without one, you will undoubtedly experience one at some point, because, as Ernest Hemingway said, “Life breaks everyone” eventually.

In Matthew’s account of the resurrection that we just heard, he mentions that there was an earthquake that first Easter morning, which moved the stone away from the tomb. You may remember, if you were here on Passion Sunday, that this is not the first earthquake we’ve had this week. Matthew also tells us there was an earthquake the moment that Jesus died, the moment when those who had been his followers and believed him to be the Messiah must have doubted and despaired, because this man who now hung on a cross could certainly not be the one who would save them, as they had hoped he would be.

And so it was surely with heavy hearts that those women approached the tomb that morning. A physical as well as an emotional earthquake had shaken their very foundations. Their plans had to change. Their hopes had been dashed. And just when they could not be any more in despair, the ground shakes again – another earthquake! Hadn’t they had enough?!

And yet this earthquake is something entirely different. There, before their eyes, an angel moves

across the sky like lightening, wearing clothes a dazzling white, and moves away that big heavy stone, which Matthew tells us had been placed there to prevent Jesus’ disciples or anyone from stealing the body. The first earthquake had devastated; this one shocks, as the inside of the once tightly sealed tomb before them comes into view and they find that, as the angel tells them, it is empty. Rather than devastation, this earthquake had brought hope to the women at the tomb – hope in the possibility (even if they still feared!) of new life.

Maybe you have seen the movie Fight Club. It’s a difficult movie to watch, but the themes are quite fascinating. In it, a group of men rediscover the spark of life by engaging in consensual fistfights with each other, and through this, they find a new way to live. As the main character explains, “Only after disaster can we be resurrected.” Could this not be the take-away from the experience of those women at the tomb? They had experienced disaster – seen their friend and teacher crucified before their eyes, and endured an earthquake of the land and of the heart. And now, as they try to move on with their lives, tending to the dead body of their beloved teacher, they experience another earthquake, now showing them that when the earth moves under your feet, you might just look up to find an open and empty tomb, and an angel telling you with the authority of God himself, “Do not be afraid.”

            And in these four words is the best news of all. An earthquake that opens a tomb by itself is not good news – it is earth-shattering. An empty tomb by itself is not good news – it is confusing. Even an angel that moves like lightening and is dressed like the sun is not good news – it is terrifying. But those words – “do not be afraid” – offer us the promise that comes with the shock of the resurrection. When the angel says these words, and when Jesus says the same words a bit later, it is not to assure us that nothing will ever go wrong. We know from experience that things do frequently go wrong. We have all

had earthquakes in our lives – you may even be in the midst of one right now. We have gotten the dreaded phone call, watched the heart-breaking scene, and experienced what we thought could never happen to us. So those words don’t shield us from trouble. “Do not be afraid” does not mean that everything is going to work out for the best, because while we may like to tell ourselves that, we know that it isn’t always the case, and in fact, it often isn’t.

            No, when we hear those words, “Do not be afraid” from the angel, and then later from Jesus, it is an assurance that what earthquakes we may endure, whatever ways our lives may get turned upside down, whatever gutters we may find ourselves in, God has the power to hold us and strengthen us through it. With those words, we know that whatever we may have to face, we need not face it alone, and that no earthquake, no matter how strong, is stronger than God’s love for us.  

            At the end of the day – or in the case of the resurrection story, at the beginning of the new day, just before dawn – God gets the last word. God’s love wins. God’s love and power turn our earthquakes and our despair and our devastation into an opening, into hope, into the possibility for growth and newness and new life. Sometimes it is an earthquake that we need in order to see and experience resurrection.

            Alleluia! Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Alleluia! Amen.

Maundy Thursday Sermon: "Where we'd rather not go" (Apr. 17, 2014)

            Throughout this Lenten season, we have been learning about different ways to pray. Those who have attended our midweek evening workshops have experienced prayer through breathing and body movement, through a labyrinth journey, through coloring and doodling, playing with clay, and through listening to music and looking at art. Who knew there could be so many ways to pray!

            But on the other hand, there are so many more ways to pray than what we could cover in just six weeks. Last week, I came across this wonderful quote from Henri Nouwen that says it well. He writes: “There are as many ways to pray as there are moments in life. Sometimes we seek out a quiet spot and want to be alone, sometimes we look for a friend and want to be together. Sometimes we like

a book, sometimes we prefer music. Sometimes we want to sing out with hundreds, sometimes only whisper to a few. Sometimes we want to say it with words, sometimes with a deep silence. In all these moments, we gradually make our lives more of a prayer and we open our hands to be led by God even to a place we would rather not go.”

            I was initially drawn into this quote by Nouwen’s descriptions of all the different ways we may find to pray. But the part that made me think of Holy Week, and the story we tell during these three days before Christ’s resurrection on Sunday, is that last part of the quote. “We open our hands to be led by God even to a place we would rather not go.” It is, after all, on this Thursday of Holy Week, following the Passover meal, that Jesus goes with his disciples into the Garden of Gethsemane to pray, and in a deeply human moment, Jesus prays that God would let this cup pass from him. He prays that he wouldn’t have to go through what he is about to do, and he ends the prayer with, “If this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.” In Jesus’ prayer on that night in which he was betrayed and arrested, he gave himself completely to the will of the Father, agreeing to go to a place he would rather not go, with those words we still so often pray: “Thy will be done.”

            Prayer has that power, doesn’t it? The power to bring us into places we would rather not go? An answer to prayer may come in the form of us needing to take action in a way we didn’t anticipate. It may come in the form of us needing to give something up that is important to us. An answer may come in the form of an ending to something instead of the fixing that we had imagined. “Thy will be done” involves a lot of relinquishing of control, for it puts us completely in the hands of God.

            Perhaps the hardest answer to prayer and the hardest relinquishing of control that we have to experience is that of asking forgiveness. To ask someone else to forgive you means first of all acknowledging that you’ve done something wrong. How much easier it is to simply explain ourselves than to admit fault; to apologize, and then add a “but…” with an explanation about why what we’ve done is really justified. You might say to your spouse, “I’m sorry I didn’t do this for you, but I’ve been really busy.” To your kids, “I’m sorry I missed your game, but something came up at work.” Even to God, “I’m sorry I’ve been more or less ignoring the people around me who are in need, but, there are just so many of them, I don’t know where to start.” When we include a but like that, we’re not really ready to ask for forgiveness, are we, because we aren’t ready to admit that we need it.

            But we do need it. And in the church year there is not a time when we realize this more poignantly than during Lent, and especially during these three days, when we hear about how sinless Jesus took on our sins without apology and gave himself over to death for us: even those of us who would deny him repeatedly, who would betray him for our own self interest, who would flee from his side in his hour of need, who would watch from a distance while he is unjustly condemned and sentenced to die, all so that we can watch our own backs. It is remarkable that it is the people who were closest to Jesus, who did all these things and more, whose feet Jesus bends down to wash. Knowing exactly who they are and what they’ve done, and what they will do, he still comes face-to-face with their dirty, stinky feet.

            During our brief glimpse of spring this week, many dirty, stinky feet that have been hidden for months of winter came out. The first day I wore sandals and saw the state of my feet, I grimaced a bit. They’re gross, feet. We can pretend they aren’t by getting pedicures and scrubbing and wearing clean socks, or never showing anyone our feet in the first place, but the fact remains, they are dirty. But Jesus faces the grime – on our feet and in our hearts – and bends down to wash them, to wash us with his love… to forgive us with his grace.

            And it doesn’t stop there – Jesus doesn’t only wash our feet, but also has a meal with us bunch of sinners who sometimes won’t even admit that sinners is what we are. Jesus blesses bread and wine and gives thanks and says, “This is my body and my blood, given for you for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in remembrance of me.” Just as we can try to hide our feet, we can try to hide our hunger, even try to fill it with food we make ourselves, but in the end we all hunger and thirst for what only God can provide.

            And then later still that same night, after he has washed the feet of sinners, eaten with betrayers, loved deniers, prayed with deserters, he is arrested. And he doesn’t think, “I can’t believe I spent so much love and energy on those deadbeats, and they haven’t even stuck around for me.” Because he already knew all that. He knew as he had eaten with them and washed their feet what they would do and what they would leave undone – and he did what was needed to forgive them anyway. He saw them for all their hunger and all their dirtiness and the griminess of their hearts, and he loved them anyway. And he continued to love them, continued toward the cross for them, continued to pray, “Thy will be done,” even though it would take him somewhere he would rather not go.

            As we enter these Three Days, let us also pray that we might be led with courage into a place we would rather not go. Perhaps that is a place where we find forgiveness for another whom we have struggled to forgive, or, seek forgiveness for ourselves; or perhaps it is a place where we must face the grime in other people, and love them in spite of it; or a place where we must give up something dear to us for the benefit of another. Let us pray and go to that place we would rather not go – for this is often the place where we experience the most selfless love, the most unexpected forgiveness, the most profound grace.

            And let us begin toward that place right now, as we enter together into a time of prayer, a time of confession, a time of going where we would rather not go, in which we bare our hearts to a God who promises to love us in spite of our faults and our shortcomings, who would go to every length to show us that love, and who forgives us and promises to make all things new.

            In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Three months, again, a world famous doctor, and Hodgkin's flashback

When one has finished cancer treatments, one starts in on the follow-up routine, which is generally seeing the doctor every three months for a while. I have just had my smattering of three-month appointments (plus a dentist, plus pre-op for upcoming surgery). When I saw Dr. Skinner, I asked if I should still be seeing someone about the long-term effects of my Hodgkin's treatments, lo those many years ago. It was Hodgkin's follow-ups, after all, that detected the breast cancer, and it remains my Hodgkin's treatments that carry a greater risk for long-term side effects. Dr. Skinner suggested I see Dr. Constine for a comprehensive cancer follow-up. I wasn't sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded smart, so I obediently went along with it.

I saw him yesterday. As it turns out, Dr. Constine is internationally known for his work with and research on survivors of childhood cancers that were treated with radiation. He literally wrote the textbook on the topic. (And he's here, in Rochester! Good idea, God, sending me here for my first call!) Hodgkin's Disease is one of the more common childhood cancers to be treated with radiation, and so much of his work is with Hodgkin's survivors. Score!

When I saw him, we talked a bit about the protocol I was on. I remember sitting in that exam room at UC Davis in 1999, listening to the different options for treatment - either radiation at higher doses with no chemo (formerly the norm), or this newer protocol with lower doses of both chemo and radiation. The advantage to the former was that it had been used for longer and we knew the long term side effects, and it didn't involve chemo, which terrified me because it would make me look and feel like a cancer patient. The cure rate was, if I remember correctly, about 75%. The latter option did involve chemo, but had a 95% cure rate. With lower doses of chemo and radiation, the hope was that the longterm effects would be less. The downside was that it had only been used for about 10 years, so we weren't entirely sure what the longterm effects would be beyond that... and in fact, it was at 13 years that I developed breast cancer, and it is believed that with those lower doses of radiation, it was enough to damage but not destroy my breast tissue, making it more susceptible to breast cancer. On the other hand, my heart and lungs and thyroid and spine, all in the field of radiation as well, are in much better shape than they would have been, so I'm glad about that! I think of my decision to have that latter protocol to be my first real grown-up decision, one that would affect the rest of my life in a way far more profound that I perceived in that moment.

This week, Dr. Constine affirmed that this was a very good protocol, which has had great results. But, it is important to keep track of patients like me, to continue to watch for these potential long term effects. The chemo effects he isn't too concerned about. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you may remember that my fertility is one of things possibly affected by chemo, but a blood test showed that this seems to be fine. Other than that, nothing else has come up due to chemo. But the radiation, we need to watch. So he has ordered for me a chest X-ray, watching my cholesterol levels (heart disease is a risk), a stress echo every 5 years or so (again, heart disease), and a thyroid ultra sound, because young woman are the most likely to develop something there (though he clarified that because I had clear thyroid blood work last year, he isn't worried). And, I should see him once a year, which I'm used to anyway.

He also said definitively something I hadn't heard before: Hodgkin's is not hereditary. He said my same-gender sibling would be at slightly higher risk, as might my children (like, instead of a 1 in 10,000 change, they have a 3 in 10,000 chance), but it is hardly worth mentioning. So that, at least, is some peace of mind for my offspring!

So that's the skinny. In other news, I had my pre-op for my final surgery this morning. Nothing to report on that - it was more or less the same as the other four pre-ops I have had. :)

Reverse grief and self care

In just a week and a half, I will have what should be my final cancer-related surgery, the swap out of my adjustable saline implants for the more anatomically shaped, state-of-the-art "gummi bear" silicone implants. This will be the last surgery until said implants need to be replaced, which will hopefully not be for many years.

Understandably, everyone has said, "Boy, you must really be looking forward to this all being over!" And yes, yes, of course I am, but...

Even saying goodbye to something bad brings with it a kind of grief. When I was preparing to spend a year in Slovakia as a Young Adult in Global Mission, we learned about the culture shock we would experience, but we also learned about reverse culture shock, the experience you have when you return home to what should be familiar but suddenly it no longer feels quite right. Reverse culture shock can be more difficult and trying than culture shock, because when you go you expect it to be different, but when you return, you expect it to be the same as it was, and it isn't. Others have changed, and even more, you have changed.

Perhaps that is what I am feeling now. For nearly two years, my mind has been occupied by breast cancer. For most of my ministry, I have been enduring breast cancer treatments in some form. And now suddenly, after April 22, it will be over. Of course I'll still have regular check-ups, but since the summer of 2012, there has always been a procedure or a surgery that has been on the calendar, something to anticipate, and now there will be nothing. And even as that should be a positive thing, when I think of it, I feel a bit of fear.

Someone recently directed me to this fabulous blog called "loving cancer." A young woman with colon cancer reflects on how much she dislikes the imagery of "fighting" cancer, and she would rather approach it with a more positive spin - a chance to learn, to change, to grow. She recently reflected on how the end of treatment feels. It's a thoughtful and honest read, and I encourage you to read it yourself. What spoke the most to me was how during cancer treatments, you take care of yourself and give yourself a break and delegate and forgive yourself for not being tip-top. And when it all ends, how quickly we slip back into our old, unhealthy habits.

For her, the big one is her eating habits. I've been thinking about what it might be for me, and I think it is likely overworking. I am eager to get back to a vocation I love, I am eager to learn an assortment of new skills (it is worth noting here that last Friday, in one day, I learned how to machine quilt - and quilted almost an entire baby quilt - and how to make my own pizza crust!), I am eager to start a family with my husband. But very quickly after returning to work after my last mastectomy, I threw myself back into life with full force... only to find three weeks later that I was exhausted. I have been grateful, to some extent, that I have this one last surgery, one last reminder to relax, to take it easy, to be good to myself. I will once again be forced to lie still on the couch, not exercise too vigorously, and not lift anything too heavy for a few weeks.

But after that... then what? Nothing more to hold me back. Nothing more to save me from my over-zealousness. Is that what causes me to fear? Os is it that cancer has become familiar and now I won't have that familiarity guiding my life plans? Or is it that I felt in such good care through all of this, but after this surgery, I'll be more on my own?

It is probably some combination of all of those. And compounded by the fact that Michael and I will finally be able to start trying to have a family, and when that happens... speaking of learning new skills! I know nothing about babies, except that they poop and cry and sleep a lot and eventually grow into children who are an age I actually do know how to deal with. Cancer - now that was something I knew how to deal with. But babies? Oy...

Oh goodness, I have so many other things floating around in my head that I want to write, but being the week before Holy Week, and the planning that goes with it, I can't formulate my thoughts. Perhaps they will appear in sermons in the coming week! Until then...

Sermon: "Unbind them." (April 6, 2014. Lent 5A)

April 6, 2014

John 11:1-45

            Not to be morbid, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately about death. Part of it is that it is Lent, and I’ve been preparing for Holy Week – so it’s an occupational hazard that I think about death pretty thoroughly every spring. Then, I recently read a book about someone’s near-death experience, in which she talks about how sad she was to return to earth after having been briefly in the presence of Jesus. Then we were in this musical called, “Death Takes a Holiday,” which, even though it is a comedy, got me thinking about different perspectives on death – how we view it, how we deal with it, what it means, etc. Then this week I went to a continuing education event led by a pastor and a funeral director called, “The Good Funeral,” in which we discussed different elements of funerals in a culture that has really changed the way it deals with death over the past 100 years or so.

            And then, of course, there are our texts for today, in particular the raising of Lazarus. Perhaps it was all the other thinking I have been doing about death that made me read this story about Lazarus with very different eyes this time around. It’s a very famous story, of course, one I’m sure you all have heard before. So before I comment further, let me just ask you: who thinks this is a joyful story? Who thinks it is troubling? Who thinks it is something else? How would you categorize it?

            I always thought it was a joyful story – who wouldn’t want their loved one brought back from the dead? Sure there is sadness at first, but it definitely has a happy ending, I thought. But this time around, I wasn’t so sure. I wondered how Lazarus felt about being brought back from his peaceful rest, especially since he has already begun to decay, knowing that he is going to have to go through death again. I wondered how Mary and Martha felt, having already begun to grieve and come to terms with the loss of their brother, and now he is back – so they, too, will have to go through all of the grieving process again. And I wondered how Jesus felt, knowing that it would be this act which would finally lead to his arrest and his own painful and humiliating death. This time around, I noticed a lot more negative emotions than good ones, and I was left thinking, did we really have to go here? Weren’t there other ways that the Son of God could be glorified? The story of the healing of the blind man that we heard last week was such a nicer way to show God’s glory!

            But I suppose that’s the thing about God defeating death and about new life. It sounds so good, at first and in theory, but really, it can be uncomfortable, and at worst, quite terrifying. As good as it sounds, it may very well be something we try to resist, even without knowing it. And I’m not talking anymore so much about physical death, but about the various sorts of deaths we experience on a more daily basis, the metaphorical tombs in which we find ourselves buried: addiction, hopelessness, guilt, depression, loss, pain… All such difficult things, but getting out of those things can be even more difficult than just resolving to stay there. It may not be a good friend, but it is at least a familiar one.

Michael and I have been watching Downton Abbey – we finally gave in, and we’re just starting season 4 – and one of our favorite characters just died. (I will be vague, in case there is anyone out there who hasn’t seen it yet but plans to!) The grieving spouse of this person has been wandering around the house like a ghost for six months, wearing black and refusing to engage once again with life. Finally Carson, the old butler and dear friend of the person grieving, speaks up, saying, “You are letting yourself be defeated by this.” And we do sometimes let death defeat us, don’t we? Whatever it is that keeps us in the tomb has power over us, such that it can defeat us. And so even when God comes to set us free from our pains and our tombs, our response is often that of Martha: “Don’t open the tomb, Lord. He’s been dead a long time. It’s really gonna stink in there!”

            Thankfully, God dismisses our objections, and calls out anyway: “Lazarus! Come out!” And like Lazarus, we may come out, alive once again… but also like Lazarus, still bound by strips of cloth. We may be alive, but are we free?

            You may have noticed that the confession we have been using throughout Lent is the one from the LBW, the old Lutheran Book of Worship: “We are in bondage to sin and cannot free ourselves.” When the new hymnal came out in 2006, the words of the confession were changed to, “We are captive to sin and cannot free ourselves.” That’s good too, but I prefer the older version, and here’s why. In Greek, the words for bound and unbind are the same words that are used to describe the power of God – and the power of the clergy – to “bind” and to “loose.” That is what we call the “power of the keys” – that is, the power to forgive and to declare forgiveness to you for all your sins. When we confess that we are in bondage to sin, then when the pastor declares forgiveness on Christ’s behalf, we are essentially being unbound. It is as if Christ says to us, “Unbind them!”

            In other words, in the story of the raising of Lazarus, we see a link between two central promises of God: life and forgiveness. The more brokenness I see in the world, the more convinced I become of how much healing could come from forgiveness: forgiveness for people who have hurt us in the past and caused us to put up walls of protection that keep anyone else from really knowing us; forgiveness for those by whom we have felt neglected, or who were too overbearing, or who were too critical and not enough loving; forgiveness, perhaps most of all, for ourselves, for falling short of who we think we ought to be, who others think we ought to be, who God thinks we ought to be. When Jesus commands those gathered around to “unbind him,” and they respond, Lazarus becomes a man who is not only alive, but also a man who is free – free from death’s defeat, and from the fear and hopelessness of the tomb.

            What binds you, people of God? From what do you need to be unbound? From what do those around you need to be unbound? What keeps you from dwelling fully in the land of the living, the land of the forgiven and free?

            Whatever it is, brothers and sisters in Christ, hear this: Christ calls you out of the tomb. He knows what it is like in there, he has wept the tears you weep, he has felt the desolation you feel, and he is calling you to come out. And, he bids you be unbound from all that would keep you from life.

            Let us pray… Lord God, we sometimes find ourselves trapped in a dark tomb, bound by our concerns and our pains and our illnesses. Help us to hear your call to us to come out, and help us to allow ourselves to be unbound and freed to live fully. As we enter next week into the time when we remember your own suffering and death, may we be grateful that you proved once and for all that death need not have any power over us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.