Today was Sophie’s year-end picnic at school. The weatherman predicted storms, but we enjoyed bright sunshine and the peal of  laughter as dozens of children ran willy-nilly all over the yard. I looked around the playground at the goodness of my family: Eric’s sister and mother, my little niece, and my mother were all present to celebrate the end of a good year with Sophie, Emily, Eric and me. All of us. Together. We are so blessed.

I came home from the picnic and created a celebration of the goodness God gives to us when we endure difficult things for His Glory. For me and my family, it has been a tough 5 years of wrestling with the incapacity of prolonged illness. I endured two rounds of life threatening pregnancy, fighting to save the lives of these precious girls while my family fought to save me. I recovered from delivery only to face the uncertainty of pancreatic cancer, but I am well now and we are all alive and well. Finally.

We will enjoy the fruits of our labor for the rest of our lives.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” Galatians 6:9

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:::WARNING::: This post contains graphic spiritual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Bear with me. When I read stuff like the stuff I’ve written below, I question my ability to stomach even the most well-meaning conversation with a sentimental Evangelical. I’m cynical because I’ve been hurt by too many judgmental people, only to often become one myself. There are times when, in my efforts to get off my high-horse, I land on a soap box. That being said, feel free to roll your eyes and grip your belly. I was the closest I have ever been to losing my life this month, and I’m going to wax spiritual about it.

Phillipians 3:14 “I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.” Or, as The Message Bible puts it, in a funky yet perhaps inauthentic translation, “I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.”

I first learned about “pressing on” during my pregnancies. All mothers know well the need and desire to “press on” through discomfort when they are carrying a child. They know the nine months will culminate in a painful, but joyful day. A day when the wail of a new life is the strongest analgesic in the hospital.

During my pregnancies, my body physically reminded me of the imperfections and constraints on goodness in this world. Those 78 weeks were spent with my head over the commode. I only found relief near the end of my second pregnancy, when I was fed through a catheter in my arm. Even so, in the precious minutes after delivery, with a seven pound bundle at my breast, I remember looking at my husband and saying, “You know, I think I might want more children.” My obstetrician nearly paged the on-call psychiatrist, but the elation of a new life, and perhaps a few fuzzy hormones, made it all worthwhile. I pressed on. I both gave and received life that year.

This past month, my post-pancreatectomy complications were intense. In the first few days, I required an additional surgery and a blood transfusion from internal bleeding. A week later, my abdomen filled with pockets of fluid near my diaphragm and lungs. I endured more procedures, including an abdominal drain followed by an extremely painful thoracentesis, where my lung was surgically drained and a tube was left in my ribcage. It was attached to a collection box that was anchored to a vacuum tank in the wall. Unfortunately, my lung partially collapsed and retained the fluid. Bands of scar tissue formed around the lung, cinching the lower half like a belt.

I was rushed via ambulance, sirens blaring, from Alexandria to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. In the ICU, the opinion of the thoracic surgeon was that my lung drain was to be removed and I was to undergo a “thoracotomy” to release the trapped lung and drain the painful pockets of fluid before infection set in. The surgeon explained that he would have to go in, most likely thorascopically, to my chest cavity to scrape out the scar tissue constraining my lung. There was the possibility that he would have to access the lung by splitting my rib cage open in a “clamshell” technique, leaving a large scar and a cracked breastbone.

Scared out of my mind, I took Eric’s hand and we fervently prayed that God would give me the strength and tenacity to breathe deep and exercise. We prayed that the scar tissue would slowly expand and my body would absorb the trapped fluid in my chest. I had three days to prove to the doctor that my body would heal without threatening my life. If I failed, or if the excess fluid became infected, my time was up and I was to undergo the thoracotomy. I doubted my ability to endure any more pain. After three years of hyperemesis, a pancreatic tumor, and infection after infection, another surgery, especially one so drastic, I genuinely doubted my ability to survive with the little strength I had left.

With the help of Facebook, the alert was out for prayer and hope. I had families from China, Singapore, Thailand and India asking God for healing. I had friends, relatives, and entire church congregations praying for me from almost every state in the Union. Even Sophie’s preschool staff said prayers for me during their meetings.

Eric was there to carry me through those uncomfortable days. He made me take walks and breathe deep into the spirometer. He slept in my hospital room on a vinyl futon. Eric’s discomfort on that thing was “a physical manifestation of his love for me.” I almost fainted my first time down the hall, but perseverance was my only option. If, on the third day, my lungs sounded clear and my white blood cell count dropped below 13,000, I could go home. If not, I would go under the knife again.

God proved his goodness to my doubtful heart. My ailing body had dragged me out on a precipice of faith. I knew my white blood cell count was entirely out of my control. I arrived in the hospital with a WBC of 24,000. My only option at this point was to completely rely on God’s promise that for those who ask; for those who believe in His power to intercede, there will be an answer of providential faithfulness.

This September, I asked God to stretch my faith and draw me closer to Him. I’ve heard that faith can move mountains. Unfortunately, I haven’t graduated to “mountain-moving faith.” I currently exercise small-to-moderate-heap-moving faith. I’m quite happy to pray for God’s help and wisdom, then continue on by my own strength. I end up trying to do things myself. I find myself trapped in a joyless cycle of exhaustion. This time around, I wasn’t able to will my WBC count down. God had me between a rock and a mountain. My only tool was prayer. It was time to leave my small heap behind.

God is good. I am home. My chest is in one piece. No one split my ribs or cracked me in half. We all prayed fervently while I walked and breathed my way to life. Thank you, God, for your strength and faithfulness. Thank you for drawing me so close this past month.

For the record, that’s the last time I pray for my faith to be stretched, thank you very much.

Well, maybe not. The view is pretty good from up here.
I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.

When I had Emily a year ago in April, I thought the vomiting was over. I was wrong. A few weeks after delivery, I was violently ill. An ultrasound in the ER revealed a gallbladder full of stones and a large cystic lesion hiding in my pancreas. I had surgery in June 2009 to remove the gallbladder, but the pancreatic cyst was still there, causing everyone to worry.

The first time I heard “cancer”, the doctor said it was a remote possibility, and that the cyst was most likely nothing. I followed up after we moved to DC, and my new doctor told me to wait until December for another MRI, giving the cyst a few months to resolve.

In December, I went back to the doctor and nonchalantly waited for the good news. The odds of a harmless cyst presenting after gallstones were decidedly in my favor. The doctor sat me down and looked over at my little Emily on my lap. He said the cyst was still in my body. It hadn’t grown, but it hadn’t gone away. It was just sitting there, a little 5 cm ball of anxiety in my belly.

I was told to wait- again- until June. June was six months away, ample time for the thing to disappear. I tried to stay positive, but my confidence was waning. Every month that passed increased the odds of malignancy.

I was afraid to call my doctor. I avoided making appointments. If I didn’t make the MRI appointment, I wouldn’t have to find out that it was still there. The stressed piled up- every time I disciplined my preschooler, I thought, “is this all she will have to remember of me?”. Every time we went swimming, I remember thinking, “is this our last summer by the pool?”. I know it sounds dramatic, but damn, pancreatic cancer is intensely dramatic. Especially when you have a 3 year old and a baby, and when you love your family as completely as I do.

Now we are in July. My June results were, as I feared, that the mass in my belly is a tumor. It might not yet be a malignant tumor, but it is a premalignant intraductal papillary mucinous neoplasm, a serous cystadenoma or a mucinous cystic neoplasm. We no longer believe it is a run of the mill pseudocyst from gallbladder disease. It is bad, it is scary, and I am going to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore this coming Tuesday. I will meet with a team of surgeons and out my life in their hands. If I let this tumor go for a few more months, the liquid inside it might grow thick and metastasize to my other organs. Pancreatic cancer is the most deadly of intestinal cancers. The survival rate is around 3%, five years after initial diagnosis. We’re well beyond the “wait and see” options. I want to grow old with my husband and attend my daughters’ weddings. I want this thing OUT. All signs are pointing to a pancreatectomy.

I will keep you all, my beloved 16 or so friends, posted as to the final diagnosis and prognosis, beginning this coming Tuesday. The irony is that the only accurate diagnostic tool for these things is surgical removal. As we wait, please pray for me. For all of us. Specifically, here are a few requests that I have for you as we face this:

- Pray for wisdom on the part of the doctors and Eric and me as we make life-altering treatment decisions this week. I am not a patient patient. It is in my best interest to try to become one.

- Pray for my daughters, Sophie and Emily, who are sensitive little things and are already tuned into the stress they see in their family. They cannot even leave the room I am in without tears. I hope for their world to remain as normal as possible as they spend the weeks following recovery away from mama and daddy.

- Pray for my husband and parents. I know they love me very much, and it is hard to imagine the fear they all face as they look at the possibility of losing their wife and child. I’m not going to die. I’m just going to worry about it.

- Pray for me through this treatment. I don’t like pain. I want a two-week epidural and a lot of benadryl so I can sleep through recovery. I’m flat-out, honestly and openly, scared down to my toenails of an operation. I’m no toughie. I’m a wimp. It is going to hurt.

- Most importantly, praise God for his goodness. The kind of tumor I have rarely presents any symptoms until a person is a few months from death. Mine was most likely the cause of, and discovered because of, hyperemesis gravidarum. A routine ultrasound revealed this silent mass. It has probably been there for years, and without its discovery and treatment, I wouldn’t be here for much longer. Because my God is so very good, my doctors found it, and I will live to see my little ones grow to adulthood. I will grow wrinkly and grey with my husband, who makes me laugh every day, no matter what. We will sit on our covered porch in our white Cracker Barrel rockers and remember the love we have enjoyed our whole lives.

And yes, I’m being dramatic. But I’m allowed to, I think.

Love to you all, and we will keep you posted as we follow through on this ever-surprising journey.
XOX.

I am a Capitalist. I like my healthcare the way it is. People like my husband pay high insurance premiums so they can go to the doctor they choose, to receive the treatment they want, once or twice a year. That ends up paying the price for immuno-disadvantaged people like me, who pay a little more than that to go to the doctor about once a week.

Government funded healthcare is a form of Socialism. Anything that closes down the free market, thus overriding the common principles of economics, is certainly not a form of Capitalism. There can be no free market competition when the state healthcare system is made mandatory by the government. On page 16 of the proposed legislation, if, once the legislation is put into effect you are a) unemployed or b) don’t have health insurance of your own, or c) later want to switch from the private insurance you do have at the time of the legislation to another private carrier, you have to enroll in the government healthcare program. The only way to keep your private insurance is to have it forever and ever amen. You can’t switch to anything EXCEPT the government program once it is put into effect. Read more: http://www.ibdeditorials.com/IBDArticles.aspx?id=332548165656854

 Here is where we have Socialism. As defined by Merriam Webster’s dictionary, Socialism is the societal system where the state owns and distributes the means of production and distribution of goods. Imagine that the healthcare system is a big factory, where doctors are the mechanics, and medicine and treatments are the robots manufactured. In the proposed system, the state doesn’t own the factory, but it does control the mechanics and dictates who, how, why, and when they can make certain robots. Right now I can purchase whatever the Hell robot I want. Under this new system, I get whatever robot the government thinks will fit my needs. In terms of the pregnancy I just had, which cost over $150,000, I needed, paid for, and received the IV Food and Fluids for 9 Months Robot. For only $6,838 (as quoted by my private health insurance carrier) I could have had the D&C Robot. Instead, I have Emily, who is currently napping, thank God.

Lastly, where does the government get the money to pay for the state-run healthcare system (remember- it is $1,000,000,000,000)? Currently, the top income earners (over $1,000,000 annually) are taxed at a rate of 35%. In July, House Democrats agreed to hike taxes from these top earners (the folks who make the Capitalist world go ‘round) to a whopping 45%! http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-/content/article/2009/07/11/AR2009071100482.html?nav=rss_email/components  While I am fortunately (and unfortunately) not in that particular income bracket, there are many wonderful people who are, like the OBGYN who fought for my baby and did not recommend that I abort her. My own father is in that income bracket- and he doesn’t just sit around and count his dollars. Just last month, he paid cash for a new hearing aid for my cousin, Amy. He and my father-in-law paid for the private health insurance we needed while my husband was a law student. The wealthy, who work hard for their dollar, will be MADE to pay for those that can’t afford health insurance. Left on their own, these people are free to choose whom they support, rather than handing the cash over for the government to choose for them. In fact, we all are ALREADY paying for the uninsured. Honestly, I don’t mind, because it is a cost of having private insurance. We pay high insurance premiums to cover the costs of hospitals who help everyone who comes to the ER- the 97% of us who are insured and the 3% who are not. Sadly, a majority of those uninsured are illegals who use our healthcare and don’t pay for it. Not only is this proposed plan Socialism, but it will eventually become Amnesty- further incentive to cross the border and live in someone’s garage.

Anyway, that is my two cents. I hope it doesn’t become my 2 trillion cents.