Feeling the Sunshine again.

What a difference a day makes. The sun in shining on fresh fallen snow this morning, and I can feel its warmth in every nook and crevice of my heart too.

I do not have breast cancer! I do not have breast cancer! I do not have breast cancer!!!!!

What a sweet sound that short sentence has. For the past three weeks I have been hearing another one whispered in the quiet corners of my heart “I might have breast cancer!” That one was a lot harder to say, and I didn’t like the sound or feel of it at all.

Just after we got home from Riverwood I was scheduled for my yearly mammogram. Ouch! I walked out of the hospital whistling a happy tune on that day, glad that it was over with for another year. I picked up my routine and continued on with the task of sorting things out after being away from home for so long. I had all sorts of balls in the air and was getting back into the rhythm of juggling them nicely.

A week later, I was in the middle of adding one more ball to my act when the phone call came. The mammogram revealed something sinister, and I was to return for further views and tests. My heart sank, all the balls that I had nicely dancing in the air went skittering out of control and fell on the ground, and I began my journey through dark February. I was skittered and scattered in spirit indeed.

Just after I got this call, I sat down to watch Oprah. Lance Armstrong was on that day talking about “Live Strong” the yellow bracelet campaign. My heart jumped, and I wondered if this show was preparing me for what I was about to face in the very near future. During the next two weeks things like this kept confronting me and taking my breath away.

I went back for the second mammogram, and the girls at the clinic were talking about lumps and biopsies and calmly told me not to worry. 80% of the detected lumps were benign. Their words gave me hope and comfort, but I stood there feeling sick to my stomach. I knew this room too well. I had walked past it many times on the way to the cancer clinic with my mother-in-law just a short time ago. Yes, once every 6 weeks for over two years we walked past this room to face chemo, blood tests and oncology doctor’s appointments.

All those memories were still fresh and vivid in my mind and I didn’t want to go there again. This time I would be the one sitting in the chair waiting for the chemo injection, and AC and my girls would be standing helpless by feeling all my pain. Help!

I walked outside into the fresh air and breathed deep. As I did so, I mentally put up my inner hands to ward off the fear and wild imaginings and walked into the rest of my day, determined to focus on the positive and enjoy the day. I just couldn’t waste today worrying about tomorrow, but I sure had a battle on my hands.

For the past two weeks I have been on an emotional roller coaster ride. Chugging up one frightening hill and zooming at lightening speed down another. Up and down, up and down, round and round and round. AC was there with me and we held onto each other and laughed and cried and screamed as we faced each new hairpin curve and swerve.

We also sat silently at the end of the day when fear lurked ready to pounce out of the dark at us. Nighttime is always the worst time to fight fear isn’t it? It seems to gain strength in the dark somehow. I wasn’t sleeping too soundly, so I went to the library and loaded up on books on tape. When I woke up in the middle of the night with my mind racing, I would put a tape into my walkman, slip the small earphone into my ear, and listen to someone reading me a bedtime story. I had poetry on tape, short stories, murder mysteries, biographies, and other assorted fluffy stuff like Maeve Binchy or Dick Francis, and these stories helped me get through the dead of night many times.

I thought about Mel’s blog sharks-loss-and-snowflakes often and felt the sharks swimming all around in the deep water I was going through. I could sense them brush past me and nibble at my confidence and strength. I couldn’t see them, but my imagination painted vivid pictures of chemo, radiation and surgery sharks taking big chunks out of me.

I had to force myself to focus on something else and look up, not down at what might be circling in the dark water at my feet. I read poetry, listened to music, went for walks, ran away into a good book or two, and also worked on changing my inner dialogue. I kept telling myself — I am ok for today! I can eat, sleep, walk, read, breath without pain, so life is good. I can get up out of my chair and walk across the room. I am ok! I am ok!! I am ok! I will enjoy today and worry about tomorrow when it shows up.

I met friends for coffee, went grocery shopping, looked for new sunglasses to use on the bike trails this spring and continued on with life, all the while feeling the sharks just under the surface ready to chomp away on me. I got through ordinary things like grocery shopping and stood amazed at the fact I could do that while the sharks were so close. (See What a week )

One day I went to get my hair cut and in the solitude of the car as Andre Bocelli sang on the CD player, I wondered if this would be my last hair cut in a long time. Would I have any hair on my head at all in 6 months time? I drove along and let myself get lost in the music as these shark thoughts attacked me. By the time I got to the hairdresser I had my dukes up again and was in the fighting stance. The sharks retreated and the day progressed with some sunshine in it.

I spent a lot of emotional energy fighting those hungry creatures during these past couple of weeks and my mind tried to go down many a scary path. I was exhausted by the time my doctor’s appointment rolled around yesterday.

AC and I got ready in silence and headed out to the car. At the side door he held my hand and said “Whatever it is, we will get through it together.” We high-fived each other and said in unison whatever together and hugged. It was during that hug that we both lost it. AC started to cry and so did I.

We were both struggling with the fear of what we might hear in less than an hour, and how our lives might change. We had walked this road with his mom not long ago, and we knew what was around some of the twists and turns on this breast cancer path.

We drove in silence to the doctor’s office, and when we got there I ran in to see how crowded the waiting room was and how long the wait would be. I would rather wait in the car than in a waiting room full of coughing and sneezing people. I spoke to the secretary, and she informed me the wait would be 30-45 minutes. My face must have registered all my tension and anxiety, because she whispered to me that she had talked to the doctor about my report and it was fine. All clear. He just wanted to see me to reassure me and answer any questions I might have. I didn’t really register what she said, and thought maybe it was wishful thinking. I asked her to repeat it. She smiled and did. I still had to wait almost an hour to see the doctor, so I told her I would leave and come back. I skipped back out to the car and told AC the test came back clear. The shadow was just that, only a shadow that disappeared on the second more intense mammogram. We both sat in the parking lot and cried.

After we dried our tears we drove down to the river and followed our bike route up to the Lake. My heart skipped when I realized that I would indeed be biking again this spring and not facing surgery and chemo and radiation and other untold treatments. I burst into tears again and let the joy and relief flood through me. We drove aimlessly back to the doctor’s office, and I could feel myself breathing deeply for the first time in days as the tension slowly ebbed out of my body.

I am still feeling the after affects of the emotional battle I have been through for the past few weeks, but I said to AC that I feel like I have a new lease on life and I am going to enjoy every minute of it.

The sun is shining today and life is good. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but today is good and I will deal with tomorrow when it gets here.

Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow. It empties today of its strength.
Corrie ten Boom

We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hands…and melting like a snowwflake. Let us use it before it is too late.
Marie Edith Beynon