So with a lot of time on my hands sometimes my mind takes me dangerous places. Be warned "Here be dragons" as the old maps used to say. There's a line from the song "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" that goes:
"Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?"
The Psalmist talks about it too in the tenth Psalm. "God, are you avoiding me? Where are you when I need You?" But then we come to vs 14 - "But You know it all--"
Given the circumstances, wondering where God is is pretty human. And I did wonder a few months back. "Feeling blue" doesn't really describe the feeling. It didn't last terribly long, not long enough to be clinical depression. And since my thyroid is involved in all this mess there is a chance that there was a medical basis. Lord knows I have a good reason to be depressed. Loss of my wife, a near terminal diagnosis of cancer, and upheavals in my living situation.
Still this is a journey as a good friend reminded me on Sunday and not a battle. At the end of a battle I would be the only loser. On a journey though I can expect to run into storms and maybe even run the boat aground occasionally. And I can enjoy the beauty along the way.
At the time I realized that one of the places that God shows up in my life on a regular basis is singing. A few weeks ago the choir sang "How great Thou art" (Here is Alan Jackson's version for those that don't know it.) Before we began, one of the church widows mentioned how happy she was that we were singing that song. Her husband had loved it and the song had been sung at his funeral. So I'm enjoying the song (as I usually do) and I make the mistake of looking over. And I lost it. Choked right up. Missed a whole verse. Reminded of the incredible world we live in and the Creator of that world. Grief strikes at the oddest times. And in those moments we reconnect with God. Singing has been one of the ways that I am reconnecting God.
Last weekend was the Wings over Water Birding festival in Blaine and I took the opportunity to camp out for a night in that incredible world. Sitting on the beach listening to the gentle surf rolling in. Watching the Brant geese bobbing along and sucking up the eel grass that fuels their journey. Watching the dance of the flames in my campfire and realizing that I had forgotten the material for S'mores. Ah well. In Acts 27 Paul recounts running into a storm on his way to Rome. When all hope was lost, battered by the storm an angel appeared and reminded the travelers that trust in God wasn't useless. I have realized that I'm going to have my down days but that trust in God is what will carry me through. This complex world that we live in can only have one Power and it isn't me.
So this part of the journey is like driving through Saskatchewan (Kansas for my American friends) There really isn't a lot to see or do. It is a matter of waiting. The switch in my blood pressure medications has made a difference. My potassium levels have stabilized where they should. I don't have to get up fourteen gazillion times at night to pee. And my blood pressure is consistently in the normal range. Well, except in the oncologists office though we write that off to "White coat" syndrome.
I am up to infusion #15 of 24 that I will receive and it continues to go well. The nurse has figured out how to get my IV going without having to stick me multiple times. My seatmate and I have become fast friends. He starts his treatment a few minutes before I do and we have good conversations about the state of affairs in the universe. My thyroid levels have stabilized. My last CT scan continues to show no further growth. There were some unexplained lesions on my spleen and so the next scan will happen mid April to make sure there is nothing serious going on there. Fatigue is an ongoing issue. Even with a regular nine hours of sleep a night I'm still taking an afternoon nap.
Of course there are the little twists along the way too. The abscess that appeared on my scapula during radiation re-emerged about 3 weeks ago. So my oncologist suggested that I get it drained again. He put my concerns about antibiotics to rest and off to emerg I went. Zipping through the registration line. I was put in a rapid assessment mode and thirty minutes after walking in I was sitting in a chair waiting for the doctor to lance, drain, and prescribe antibiotics. Three hours later I was still sitting. When he eventually showed up I talked him out of needing a systemic anesthetic, telling him the last time I had had it drained without anything. We compromised on a local anesthetic which I was glad for as it turned out to be a lot more tender than I expected. Now I have the joy of changing a dressing on my back by myself for a few days.
What has changed is that nine months ago I was given a time frame of 17 months median survival rate for patients with my form of cancer. Without letting hope get out of control it is pretty apparent that the treatments are working. Could there still be complications? Absolutely. But my future is opening up for me in a way that I didn't expect a year ago. Now five years seems possible. I saw my oncologist on Wednesday for the first time in a month. That will be our schedule from now till August when the treatment ends. And in August when I finish the durvalumab treatment I will go to a 3 month CT scan observation schedule. Dare I whisper the word? Miracle?
And so begin the questions. Not that I have to answer them right away but do I re-certify in First Aid in September. I have shed most of my web clients. Should I go ahead and put my name out to recruiters? Take on some short term contracts? Can I volunteer somewhere and use some of my skills and knowledge to make a difference in people's lives? What about this book that people have talked to me about writing? And what about this storage unit full of stuff? Will I ever use my tools again? Do I really need this book shelf full of books? I did go out and do some much needed repairs on my car and purchased a long needed new laptop. So I am making some decisions. But there are some big ones ahead.
Working my way through grief has been more of a challenging process. The initial flurry of activity has passed and now I have long days and empty nights. I have been keeping myself busy with "Art in the Afternoon" a weekly program designed to give cancer patients creative tools to work through pain and the side effects of cancer. It has given me confidence in my drawing and watercolor activity but I'm a long way from the 10,000 hours needed to be good at it. I attended several drop-in grief support sessions from the local hospice society and found that they really didn't meet my needs. I started attending a faith based grief support group this week that looks like it will be more useful in exploring the emotional, spiritual, and practical needs.
I have been really fortunate with caring friends who sincerely ask "How are you doing?" and then listen when I honestly talk about what is going on. I can relate how easy it was to cancel Yvette's phone service but then how horribly difficult it was when I took the dialing shortcut off my phone. It had her picture on it and the absence on my phone echoes her absence in my life. There are other quirky little things that pop and surprise me.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said"
"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
Learn to labor and to wait."
I've always been a bit of a doer so this appeals to me. Thank you for the continued prayers.