I don't know how much I really have to say today, but I felt it would be good to just put some words down to document this past week as part of the overall journey.
I guess I'm adjusting to a new type of normal. Don't get me wrong, this is not a normal I'm prepared to put up with for very long, but I've got to accept it for what it is right now. Let me explain. I'll be going about my daily routine - wake up, take meds, wake kids up, get them fed, dressed, lunches packed, out the door, dropped off at school, come home, eat something, rest, read, take some more meds, do whatever household activity I have the energy for, rest, pick up kids, make snacks, talk about their day, spend some quality time with them, rest some more, make dinner, eat, give myself a shot in the stomach, rest, get the kids to bed, spend some time with Ray, take more meds, go to bed. And somewhere in the midst of all of this it will dawn on me; this is actually happening to me. This is my life right now. All the medications, all the hand-sanitizing and careful hugging, the bald head, the fatigue - this is my life. It's not happening to someone else, it's happening to me.
I don't feel like I have a whole lot of control these days, which for someone with control issues is not the easiest place to be; but I guess the one thing I can control is what I do with all of this. I can let it drag me down - that would be pretty easy from an emotional and physical standpoint. Then I think about Maria. No, not Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, Maria the chemo nurse at Sloan Kettering. This past Tuesday, after my first chemo nurse tried and failed twice to find a viable vein for my treatment, they called in Maria.
By this time I had tears in my eyes, not because the pain was so intense, but because the memory of my last treatment and the five different places where I was poked for good veins was just a little too fresh. Enter Maria. She could see I was unraveling. She reassured me that she would find a good vein on her first try. She wrapped my arms in hot packs and warm blankets. She told me my job was to just relax. In her soothing and confident manor she proceeded to get me hooked up, as promised on her first try, to my IV line. She told me that whenever I come in for out-patient treatment, she will be the one to help me. I felt hope.
Maria helped me see that I have another option, surrender and trust. I realize my point was that I could still control something and that is still my point. I can control who I give all of this up to. I can give up my control to the chemo that is killing the disease and wreaking havoc on my body. I can give up control to each new situation I find myself in. Or I can give up control to my Savior, Jesus Christ, who is well acquainted with sorrows and bears more than just a few needle marks on his body. I choose to trust him. I choose to let him carry me through this and to continue to provide Marias for me along the way. I choose to let Him use this somehow for His greater purposes. I choose to invite you along for the ride.
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