Today was chemo day. They aren’t very fun and involve:

1. very early mornings
2. packing up all the things to get through chemo and necessary equipment to continue the office job/work from a treatment room
3. driving a very long drive
4. dealing with chemo brain – tasting and smelling everything yuck even before the taste and smell are reality
5. doctor assessments and actual chemo
6. driving another very long drive back home

We thought we were one step ahead this morning at 5 am. We were proactive and changed an ostomy bag, retaping and resealing so there would be absolutely no possibility of any accidentals on this lovely 4 degree day of January.

We ate a fast breakfast of grapefruit, bagel, and eggs and loaded up the laptop, the bag of snacks, the paperwork, the extra supplies JUST IN CASE the no possibility of any accidentals was unrealistic, the two drinks, and our coats for this lovely 4 degree day of January.

We were not ONE HOUR down the road, when Sam announced,

“Oops, I crapped my pants.”

I am paraphrasing, based on a Saturday Night Live sketch from the late ’90s of a commercial for the Oops I Crapped My Pants adult diapers.

But seriously. He did.

Except that when it happens to an ostomy recipient, it happens right there in the front of your belly, right down the front of your very comfortable sweat pants. You know, the ONLY pair of very comfortable sweat pants. You know, in the middle of the darkness on a lonely highway before 7 am, witnessed by only the moon and a stadium of stars.

Sometimes you just have to laugh so that you don’t cry.

Fortunately, we had plenty of wet wipes, a new ostomy bag, and all the supplies. Fortunately, where we were headed also provided a WalMart with new sweat pants and underwear. Fortunately, we were NOT on Scofield time today and had 5 minutes to spare. Fortunately, new sweat pants were on clearance and no one in their right mind ventured to WalMart at 7:45 am on this lovely 4 degree day of January.

Fast forward to our very first meeting with our official home-away-from-home oncologist, 2nd in command under Dr. Al-Rajabi, Roberto Rodriguez.

(We have been attempting to meet this rock star of an oncologist – handpicked by Dr. Al – for four treatments now. Dr. Rodriguez is swamped, and so we have been under the watchful care of the temporary team of doctors in Hays. No problem. They are great. It’s just that Dr. Rodriguez was a fellow under Dr. Al at KU, and Dr. Al only relinquished control of Sam’s treatment IF we were seen by Dr. Rodriguez out here where the cowboys roam. Suffice it to say, Dr. R came HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.)

So today was THE day.

We sat in the room, waiting to meet this guy, when the door opened wide and the first words out of his mouth after his introduction and handshakes were, “I see we’re going to have a problem here.”

Heart stoppage.

And then, he pointed to Sam’s K STATE WILDCATS shirt, big as Dallas, and my K State purple t-shirt peeking out from under my hooded warmth.

This guy BLEEDS red, blue, and Jayhawkiness. I don’t believe I have ever met a more KU-KU’er.

Sometimes you just have to laugh so that you don’t cry.

And from the moment he began to give Sam CRAP about collegiate loyalty, we knew we were in the best hands, once again. He was like the Tasmanian devil whirlwind, handling Sam’s extensive paperwork and going through all the details, talking faster than a highway ostomy change, giving Sam time and attention.

But he also did something else.

He got real:

At one point, he asked Sam what the long-term looked like.

Sam expressed his desire to finish all 12 treatments before undergoing the ostomy reversal and lung and liver resectioning surgeries. And once that is over, we’re done.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Or something like that.

Dr. R went on to get real. He got pretty serious. He told us that when a patient is diagnosed with metastatic disease, there isn’t a “done.”

Reality is, Sam will face some sort of treatment, most likely, for the rest of his life.

Cancer cells have gone outside the contained area. It’s a crap shoot to know exactly where they are in the body, and oncologists are doing their best to eliminate them all, but when cancer spreads, you treat. He DID acknowledge that there ARE the stories of God’s miraculous healing, of cancer tumors being plucked from the body via surgeries, and there is absolutely no evidence of cancer years later – and that is what we pray, hope, and believe – but we cannot just “be done.”

Tonight, I am grateful for another pretty amazing KU doctor who has joined our team, even though he has a KU tattoo and disparaged our purpleness.

I am grateful for his frank discussion in that treatment room this morning.

I am grateful that God set that moon and the stadium of stars into place, put Roberto Rodriguez under the leadership of Raed Al-Rajabi, and then planted him in Hays America at the end of a stressful morning drive.

I am grateful that God is in charge, not us.

I am grateful that God is never “done.” He’s always at work.

And I am grateful for sweat pants on clearance and a trash can for the oops-I-crapped-my-pantsiness.

Sometimes you just have to laugh so that you don’t cry.

Sometimes, I sit on the couch and watch the fire in the fireplace. Yesterday, I took a short afternoon break and parked myself. I had been tasked with keeping the fire burning while Sam was out enjoying the day with a log splitter. However, I got distracted with a dust rag and a vacuum — two of my friends in low places — and I let the fire die.

When I walked into the room and remembered, “Oh, the fireplace!”, I had to begin again. So I got the biggest, burliest, heaviest log we had, thinking, “That’ll last a LONG time.”

Ri-i-i-i-ight.

It took four firestarters, quite a few strips of newspaper, constant use of the poker and stirring of hot coals from the previous Sam fire, and a lot of parking on the couch to watch and wait and beginning againing before that fire was back to where it needed to be.

Good grief. I didn’t have time to sit on the couch and watch the pot that wasn’t boiling. We had company coming over. My effort belonged with the dust and the dirt.

Big logs are not the best logs to start a fire. I knew this. I was just trying to cut a corner and get back to my friends in low places.

Sam had counted on me to keep the fire going. Dust rag and vacuum…or Sam’s confidence in me. Hmmmm.

There are lessons here…lessons that I am taking to heart, kind of.

1. When the fire dies out, it takes effort to get it going again. 
2. When the fire dies out, it is much more sensible to start small.
3. When the fire dies out, if you want a fire again, you have to make it a priority.

You might think by “fire,” I am talking about the relationship kind of fire. I am not. Although, the three lessons would correlate. Besides, I DO have a relationship in my life where I need to apply the lessons, but I digress.

**********

I received a phone call last week.

It was like one of those little firestarters.

On the other end of the phone was a representative from a fairly well-known publishing company. We visited for a little while and she asked me to describe the story I want to tell. And then she said something like, “I don’t care if it takes you two more months or 10 more months. Get your manuscript done and let me know when you are ready. Women need to hear your journey.” 

I am sure she says that to everyone – she’s in sales – but it was a spark for me.

A successful match to my worn out striker strip.

And then, two days later, I visited with a new friend who knows nothing about my journey, and she commented, “Rhonda, YOU NEED TO WRITE A BOOK. I read what you write about Sam on CaringBridge, and I would read ANYTHING you wrote. Seriously, you need to write a book.”

A newspaper strip to a hot coal that was just sitting in a heap of ashes.

**********

Many years ago, I took my high school choir to Colorado for a week and made arrangements while we were there to meet and have dinner with an author who lived just outside of Colorado Springs. Several students and I loved his books, and he and his wife were gracious enough to spend some time with us. While we visited, Robert told us that when he writes a book, he secludes himself for several weeks at a “home away from home” and just writes. No distractions. Concentrated focus.

I cannot imagine how I will ever be able to seclude myself for several weeks and just write.

And…they’re back. Those inner friends in low places, dusting and vacuuming away the dream.

However.

I do know that:

1. when the fire dies out, it takes effort to get it going again. (Schedule writing time on the calendar.)
2. when the fire dies out, it is much more sensible to start small. (Try one thought at a time, then a few sentences, one paragraph, and then one chapter.)
3. when the fire dies out, if you want a fire again, you have to make it a priority. (How important is this to me?)

Today, I am grateful that on the other end of a phone conversation, Yvette used a poker last week and stirred the embers.

I am grateful that Diana is “sitting on the couch” and just watching the beginning againing.

And I am grateful for three lessons that rose from some ashes and grateful for a story that is still glowing somewhere underneath.

I am grateful for normalcy.

Normalcy looks different these days. No longer does it include busy evenings filled with Bingo at the local assisted living facility, choir practice, Bible study or small group, CASA visits, watching “my shows” on “free” nights in the bedroom, stressing over lesson plans in my head…

No longer is normal a “walking on eggshells” feeling, a sense of the unknown, an unspoken misery of never hearing “I love you” and never feeling loved.

Normal evolved as I evolved. Normalcy is comfortable now. Normalcy is like a sherpa blanket and good book.

Normalcy now includes soft jazz playing throughout the house, quiet dinners at the table, basketball games on the TV and evenings in front of the fire, long walks in our small town USA, an occasional video call with grandchildren, verbalizing our dreams about who we need to go visit, trips we want to take, things we want to do. Normalcy involves projects and creating the home of our wishful thinking.

Normal is wearing Chiefs hoodies to church and being okay with the quirkiness. Normalcy looks like quiet Sunday morning drives on country roads, stopping to take a pretty picture here and there of ice-covered weeds in a ditch, of late night pickup rides to go find the perfect spot to watch a full moon in the stillness. Normalcy is ice cream before bed, and bedtime before 10 pm. Normalcy is hearing “I love you, dear” many, many times a day.

I am grateful for this normal life.

But I am also grateful for a return of the void.

void
/void/
noun
1. a completely empty space.

I’ve had some serious voids in my life in the last 10 years. Like the void in my life six years ago when my Mom died. I missed her. I missed her so much it was painful to my heart. Shortly after, I began calling Bingo at an assisted living facility nearby and a group of elderly ladies became my “moms,” giving me someone to love every Tuesday night for four years.

I had always wanted to be a CASA volunteer, and so I spent 45 hours in training and gained a new friend in Mariah, my CASA child and “adopted daughter,” since my girls were now absent from my life. I missed my girls. I missed them so much it was painful to my heart. But God gave me Mariah and filled the empty space with her. Mariah is still a part of my world, although she is now grown and living life without the need for a CASA mentor every week.

I gave up my vocal music/piano teaching career and thought I would never have the opportunity again to be with students, when God provided an opportunity to be involved with our church youth choir as an accompanist, thanks to Kevin Bogan and Joyce Blakesley…and encouragement from Sam to step out of my box and introduce myself to Kevin one Sunday morning. I missed being with kids and playing the piano and being a part of music. I missed it so much it was painful to my heart. But God gave me CORis, and through that experience, I met some of the best kids ever, some unforgettable memories, and I met Lisa and her daughter Abbie. I met Doris and her son Matthew. I met Kim and Kaitlin. I met Fabien and his parents, Linda and Horst. I met Grace and her parents, Roxanne and Bob. CORis led to a few piano students again. And the friendships we made through CORis led to a small group with Linda and Horst and Roxanne and Bob.

It’s kind of amazing how life takes a different direction. Never would I have imagined that the void, the empty feeling, the despair of a broken heart, would lead to some of the most fulfilling experiences, memories, and relationships of my life. I just had to follow my heart and not allow that fear of stepping out of my comfort zone stop me from doing new things.

God had plans, if I would just listen to that void.

The void is back. 

As Sam and I fight his cancer and walk that road, as we have made a new home in small town USA, as I continue to adjust to a career at a desk in my bedroom in our home, the normalcy is wonderful and serene. It is mostly without drama. But the void is back. There is something more out there.

I am grateful for a high school waitress who sparked a conversation over pancakes on Saturday morning, and Sam’s willingness to explore what we can do to open ourselves up to serving God in small town USA, to fill the void, follow that “God nudge,” and make a tiny difference in someone’s, or someones’…lives.

I am grateful I can sit at my desk in my warm home and listen to the dripping of this wet Friday – dripping that will turn to ice this afternoon, changing over to snow.

I am grateful to have Mom and Dad’s china to eat on tonight…celebrating their 68th wedding anniversary in my mind. Happy Anniversary, Dad and Mom.

I am grateful for a pay raise and a wonderful job.

I am grateful for online children’s book shopping at lunchtime. I can add to my cart all the day long and never click on “check out.” I’m pretty sure I would love “Meet the Dullards” and “Grumpy Monkey.”

I am grateful for the quiet “whhhh-chk” sound that happens about every 45 seconds or so for 46 hours. It is the sound coming from the small pump that forces chemo into an IV line that feeds into my husband’s port just below his left shoulder. Sam has to wear a fashionable fanny pack/belly bag to hold the pump when he is up and about, and it sits on the bedside table in the night as he sleeps. That “whhhh-chk” makes me think of Psalm 121:3: “God won’t let your foot slip. Your protector won’t fall asleep on the job.”

I put some lotion on my hands last night just before I got into bed. Sam was downstairs turning off lights and locking doors, and when he walked into the room, he immediately began retching. It was me. My lotion smell caused him to become sick. I am grateful that “this too, shall pass,” grateful that it wasn’t ME – just my lotion, grateful that he made it to the bathroom sink, grateful that I don’t have to live in a doghouse during chemo season – just my lotion.

Nothing sensual about it. Lots of love in the air, though. Love and cleansing wipes. We could own stock in cleansing wipes.

I am grateful for neighbors who cleaned our driveway last weekend while we were gone when the snow fell heavy, and for that same neighbor who helped Sam cut down some trees the previous week.

I am grateful that my husband has the energy to do this:

I am grateful we have a fireplace for all of this wood that is stacked on both sides of the kitchen porch.

Today, there was something calming and peaceful about a silent home with the background sound of winter temporarily melting outside, knowing the storm is coming… and I am safe.

“I hope I am around for a very long time to take care of you.”

These are words whispered to me in the quiet of the night time when I thought he was asleep.

1 Peter 5:7 instructs me to give everything I care about and I worry about to God. It’s a good thing that He has big hands. Because these days, everything is A LOT to fit in His hands.

I am grateful that Sam knows everything there is to know about finance and accounting and I am grateful that he includes me and explains in great detail when we sit down at the table every month to go through everything bill and money and paperwork and insurance and retirement and investment…and I am also grateful that God has big hands for the moments when there is overwhelm and I begin to sink in the thoughts of “what if…”

I am grateful that I have learned a few things from Sam about fixing and maintenance and repair in the last few years…and I am also grateful that God has big hands for the moments when there is overwhelm and I begin to go down that dark hole of “what if…”

I am grateful that I have had the best example of forgiveness and grace and moving on, watching my husband let go of the awful and the unfair treatment and live with open arms and acceptance and the tenacity to keep trying to build a relationship…and I am also grateful that God has big hands for the moments when I begin to step back into the muck of hurt and rejection.

I am grateful for the moments of quiet when I watch him dread, watch him reflect on our blessings, watch him dream, watch him wince…and I am also grateful that God has big hands for the moments when pain and regret and dreams that we sense may never come true engulf our thoughts.

I am grateful that God has big hands.

Don’t panic. I’m with you.
    There’s no need to fear for I’m your God.
I’ll give you strength. I’ll help you.
    I’ll hold you steady, keep a firm grip on you.
– Isaiah 41:10 (The Message)

I am grateful for a new book, Penguin Problems, about complaining and recognizing the blessings all around us.

I am grateful to be able to see the whitest white of snow on a sunny afternoon.

I am grateful the convenience of trash service.

I am grateful for crunchy peanut butter.

I am grateful for work done.

I am grateful for a new birthday coat, pink roses, butterfly chimes, Turkish lamps, and a stack of KitKat bars.

I am grateful for the convenience of defrost via microwave when I forget to take steaks out of the freezer.

And I am grateful for the walruses in my life who knock a little sense back into me when I complain.

We were driving home yesterday and had to stop at a turnpike truck stop/gas station big huge kinda place for gas. This is the kinda place with 10 lanes, 20 pumps. Of course, the lanes were all taken with at least one car, and Sam was pulling a trailer, so we pulled in behind one of the cars to wait our turn.

And we waited.

And we waited.

And then we started to notice that not only was no one in the car in front of us, no one was in the cars in at least 5 of the other lanes either. They were abandoned – presumably because the drivers needed to relieve themselves or grab a coffee.

So we waited.

And we waited.

And then we watched one of the drivers in another lane meander, yes, he MEANDERED, back out to his fancy schmancy Dodge Charger and get in. And he SAT. And another car pulled up behind him and waited. And this Dodge Charger guy just SAT. The driver of the other car finally got out, walked up to the Charger window and politely asked him to pull forward. This young something looked so offended, but he pulled up about 15 feet and stopped AGAIN. We wanted to believe that he must be waiting on a very pregnant wife who was still inside, but no-ho-ho-ho-hoh, he wasn’t.

After about 30 seconds, he started his car again and took off, pipes roaring. We were FLABBERGASTED. (And yes, that is the appropriate Grace Ferguson/Mom word to use.)

And we continued to wait.

And as we waited, our irritation meter peaked.

Tip ‘o the Monday:

IF YOU STOP AT A GAS STATION TO GET GAS AND YOU ARE FINISHED WITH THAT TASK, PULL YOUR CAR INTO A PARKING SPACE AND FREE UP THE PUMPS LIKE YOU SHARE THIS PLANET WITH OTHER PEOPLE.

Okay. Rant over.

Today, I am grateful for:

1. the crunch sound when walking on frozen slush and the security of walking on salt pellets.
2. the beauty of snow heavy trees.
3. feeling Sam’s sentimental emotion in the middle of a movie – he’s a quiet shoulder shaker when he cries and it’s pretty adorable.
4. late night leftover red velvet birthday cake in a hotel room.
5. walking through the door after being gone for a week – there is no place like home.
6. people who are considerate of others and pull forward!

I am gratefully overwhelmed.

In the last 24 hours or so, I have received beautiful or fun messages from Geri, Chris,  Bonnie, Mandrae, Karissa, Shelly, Joyce, Linda, Elaine, Karen, Michelle, Julie, and Lisa.

I was able to see and talk to my grandchildren last night for about 15 minutes – one of the joys of my life, connecting with my incredible little ones.

I was privileged to spend time with my sister and my Dad, and I also got to see John and Deanna.

I have had a wonderful week in the office in Overland Park with my co-worker friends and bosses, working, planning, and playing together as we begin this first quarter of 2019.

I have a husband who tells me with every phone call that he loves me, he is proud of me, our life is a dream come true, he is the luckiest man.

I am gratefully overwhelmed.

I am exercising again.

I just walked back to my desk after 5 flights of stairs, 100 total, to be greeted with this:

I am gratefully overwhelmed.

I am grateful for sore muscles.

I am grateful for a smaller, new vehicle to drive.

I am grateful for a warm shower.

I am grateful for socks.

I am grateful that I can be in and among foul language and inappropriateness in this season and it no longer bothers me. People are who they are, and God is teaching me and I am learning to look past that which used to make me cringe and judge and see them as beautiful.

I am gratefully overwhelmed.

I am grateful for a paycheck.

I am grateful for two reminders this week that life is short – it is important to say the words “I love you,” and take the time.

I am grateful for Klondike bars.

I am grateful for a full charge on my cell phone.

I am grateful for an abundance of devotions that call out to me and are used by the Holy Spirit to ground my thoughts.

I am gratefully overwhelmed.

I am grateful for a SLATE of new cards to send. Cards bring me happy.

I am grateful that my heart sings.

Gratefully overwhelmed for the reminder once again of a hymn and a song that have never left my memory bank:

I don’t know about tomorrow
I just live from day to day
I don’t borrow from its sunshine
For its skies may turn to gray
I don’t worry o’er the future
For I know what Jesus said
And today I’ll walk beside Him
For He knows what is ahead

Many things about tomorrow
I don’t seem to understand
But I know who holds tomorrow
And I know who holds my hand

I don’t know about tomorrow
It may bring me poverty
But the one who feeds the sparrow
Is the one who stands by me
And the path that be my portion
May be through the flame or flood
But His presence goes before me
And I’m covered with His blood

I can hear my pulse. That’s how quiet the house is on this second day of January. For the last 16 days, our world has been glorious chaos with giggles and argues and Ama requests and whining and look at this, Ama’s, and sounds of video games and how do you spell’s and feet stomping and tromping…

And now, not a creature is stirring.

But there is evidence in every room that wonderful happened here.

I am looking back through photos on my phone that fill my storage space and realize that a lot has taken place in the last two weeks when grandchildren and family were here for Christmas and beyond. Oh, how time flies when moments are fun and exhausting and stressful and memorable and…priceless.

Yesterday, as we drove home, Sam received a phone call from a dear friend of ours. When we asked how she was doing, her response was, “Well, I’ve moved into an apartment because I have Alzheimer’s.” It was heartbreaking but so uplifting that she could talk about her diagnosis and inevitable changes to her lifestyle, accepting her future with gratitude for two sons who are caring for her needs.

So, I am grateful today for picture reminders and for bullet points to list the things for which I am grateful that may otherwise be forgotten in this mid-50’s mind of mine.

• Arrival hugs
• Christmas pjs
• Bedtime stories
• Prayers in the darkness and goodnight kisses on foreheads
• Grandchildren perched on the stool at the kitchen island
• Toothpaste in the sinks and little toothbrushes everywhere
• Big curls
• A whole row of grandchildren at the local movie theater
• Chemo treatment #3 done
• Extra privileges when you’re the oldest
• Goofy faces that are automatic with Grandma glasses
• Gigi’s slippers
• Noisy car rides
• “I wanna make a craft” sun catchers and charms and fingerprint animals and styrofoam flowers
• Sleepy babies
• Expecting child #8 surprises
• Matching outfits
• Being silly at the table
• Learning to tie shoes and write names and memorize address and mom’s phone number
• Watching Sam try not to laugh at the hilarity
• Hearing the oldest two read to their little sisters
• Ice cream every night
• Watching A Christmas Story and explaining the frozen pole and “the F word”
• Counting Nativity scenes in yards as we drove around town looking at lights
• Child-sized shopping carts at the grocery store and filling them up
• Going to the goat farm
• Watching the family act out the Nativity while the oldest child read the story
• A house full of family on Christmas day
• Board games with the cousins
• Air mattresses everywhere with Rachel the favored one
• Listening to the quietness as Rachel read a bedtime story to 6 children
• The privilege of keeping the 4 oldest for another week, all to ourselves
• Addition flashcards online at Ama’s computer to break up the day
• A flooded basement and the best plumber who came at a moment’s notice to replace not one but 3 sump pumps on a frigid teen degree night
• Straightening the curls “like Mom and Ama’s hair”
• Snowball fights with 1/2 inch of snow and the little tiny snowman with black olive eyes
• Aunt Sara and her mom coming to visit
• The last night at Ama’s and all 4 in Ama’s bed for a late night of “The Good Dinosaur”
• The feeling of little hands in mine as we walked through the store
• Hearing “I wanna be YOUR kid, Ama!” over and over and over and over again
• Goodbye tears
• And Braum’s ice cream, re-loaded and ready for the next grandchildren visit