Pardon the dust ’round here. I know it’s been quite some time. The thing is…

I have oh so much to say and far too little organizational tools in my headspace right now to put anything down that feels jointed. So, while I fly through my day (and that’s just about exactly what it feels like) I come across huge thoughts and bits of introspect that often times stop me right in my tracks, but while I ponder and brood over it … I’m off and brooding over sumpin’ else. Then two weeks fly by. Or 4. Then I’m here — ‘splainin’ where I’ve been.

I’ll be honest too. I’ve had some rough weeks. I’ve soaked a few bits of tissue in both the good and the not so good. But I love that the good trumps the bad. The good carries weight. I can FEEL it’s sway. God has been hard at work on me. It’s like He has His big index finger, dipped in my chest, swirling and twirling and whirling it around in a slow rotation that becomes more and more visible the longer He does it, like a plume of water in a vortex.

Pleading. Begging. God, use me, show me, make me an implementer, an instrument. Bring good here. Show light here where it’s dark. Use this tiny little story of mine and make it seriously significant………………

……….USE ME!

(and He is.)

When we are immersed in the worst of something, we resolve ourselves to being inadequate of repairing … well, anything. (We get wilty and weak.)

But show up  and stand tall to the good in something, and we move towards the best in … everything. I’m ready to move towards the best in everything. I just am.

One of my favorites ::

—–
Lord make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
And where there is sadness, joy.

Oh, divine master grant that I may
not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love
For it is in giving that we receive-
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned.
And it’s in dying that we are born to eternal life. 

—–

The last few weeks have been FULL. There have been birthdays and celebrations and long drives and 3 hour dinners, late night talks and amazing time with family. I’ve wrapped my arms around all of my incredible (local) friends and really put solid energy into spending quality time with them. I’ve encountered some of the most stouthearted people. Warriors in Christ. New friends that have truly become underpinnings and reinforcements when I’ve literally felt like my legs had fallen out from under me. I’ve been devoted to creating tribute to these people. MEMORIES. Chances to eat and laugh and contemplate and muse on. I let myself dream with them, beyond cancer deadlines and looming diagnosis. Outside of fear and worry and things that are not mine to control. God has chosen soldiers for me in this season. Do you know what a soldier is? It’s someone who fights FOR you.

My gosh, I’m thankful. I am LEARNING. And my heart is FULL.

…

I spend a lot of time now thinking of when I’ve been my most happiest. Do you know when yours was? I reflect back on snipits that really stand out to me. I think this is probably a normal phase for someone in my place right now.  I let myself go backwards here, even though I am facing forward with all my might. I know that I believe that God is good (abundantly good!) and has purpose. I know I’ve asked a thousand times in the last year, why He would allow turmoil or induct a season that has no worth or contribution to my future. That’s just it, He doesn’t. The Hebrews felt that the future was not whole without the past. I’m in the same boat. It all leads here. Now… live intentionally.

For me, I’m cataloging. I’m allowing myself valid nostalgia. I think about peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the back yard when I was little. Of hanging on the fence hollaring out to my friends who lived on the other side. Of my yellow banana seat bike that I rode for hundreds of miles. I think about my childhood dog, Sam, and how she trompled behind my brother and I throughout the neighborhood, wherever our tireless feet would take us. I think about swimming with my dad as he tirelessly dropped quarters for us to race and find at the bottom of the pool. I think about what a treat it was to stop at 31 flavors for rainbow sherbet. I remember tapping morse code messages on the wall in my bedroom at night to my brother on the other side. I think about Camp Tadmor and my summers spent giggling over boys and Wet N Wild shimmer lip gloss. I remember bike rides to the Pole Pedal Paddle and fireworks off the butte … spending warm twilights at the softball fields collecting pop cans to buy Pixie Stix and licorice ropes. I remember spending every July at Trinity Lake, where I would crush on a different boy each year, drink my first beer and worry about nothing but my tan and my hair.

Mmmmmm, isn’t the good, GOOD?  What are YOURS?

Go on you peeps of awesomeness…

continue being remarkable.

be lionhearted.

be present… here… now.

be kind.

be you.

I had a birthday this week. Better yet, I GOT another birthday this week. How sweet is THAT? I made it to 37. Seven months ago, we weren’t entirely sure. Heck, 6 weeks ago, we weren’t entirely sure.  (see my dad’s reminder below)

Even yet, thirty-seven years later, I’m still working on becoming fully ME. Isn’t it easy to slip and slide on that? How many smokescreens do we create on a daily basis that dilute who we really are? I know I’ve done it. Don’t we continue to work endlessly hard at BECOMING something? Anything? Living up to what others want us to be, need us to be, expect us to be and less of what He wants us to be?  (*raising hand* ) What’s even harder is doing that while not hurting anyone or disappointing anyone AND while still not sacrificing anything truly genuine. Eeeesh, that’s some hard math. I don’t think it happens all at once… I think it happens daily, when we wake up and choose it. Killing, slice by slice,  the forgeries and the reproductions long enough to realize that the only one who REALLY sees, is Him anyway. That doesn’t mean we stop trying it just means we adjust where our priorities are. I used to REALLY be a people pleaser. I’ve recently let go of that (sorta) and made it a daily focus to let others’ know what I need, because before, I just morphed myself into what others’ needed ME to be.

So, for the rest of my little tiny life, on this little tiny planet … whatever amount of time that may be, I’m desperately trying to be a better person. I can’t have a redo. But I get to have a restart. Everyday is a restart, but I deeply hope I don’t need  a daily restart. I kinda hope I take a few things with me each day from the day before it. With that choice, I get to be selective. Not in a non-inclusion, secret club, “what’s the password”, kinda way … but in a “hey, I only have so many days left, what am I going to do with them and who am I going to do them with?” kinda way. I think everyone who goes through some sort of smack in the face with mortality asks themselves what they want to cram in. Mine is coming on now. Slowly… and not in a non-realistic way, but more of a pragmatic, literal and straight-forward kind of way.

1.) WHAT DO I WANT TO DO ?

2.) WHO DO I WANT NEXT TO ME WHILE I DO IT?

I ask myself that a million times a day now and while God is certainly not an amateur at this whole, love unconditionally deal, I certainly am. With that in mind, I try  not to limit things, experiences or people but it’s becoming necessary. I simply have to pour myself into those who need and want me to; into the things that are important, that will last, that will be remembered. What are my treasures? WHO are they? But also, what are my pangs? If my way  is hurting people, I absolutely need to change and in the same breath, if my way is hurting me … I need to change.

I am tearing things down…. lots of them. Taking all things apart, so that I am able to see over the top of the dust cloud, and rebuild. Isn’t that what a remodel is? I’m being remodeled.. built UP…whether I have 3000 or 3 days left. THAT my friends, is the beauty of changing seasons.

And here, what is more than likely to become my next round of ink… maybe aside the scar that reminds me daily, two of my favorite verses, written together… Exodus 14:14 and Psalm 46:10

difficult… but not impossible.

In addition, I was notified a few weeks ago that, (by the sweet grace of God and the very wonderful people in my home community) I was voted Woman of the Year by the Source Weekly, an edgy weekly magazine in our area. I have no idea how one becomes anything of the year, but apparently, if you play your cards right and get a daunting diagnosis and have to undergo some tricky procedures, it puts you in line. Regardless, it was pretty difficult for me to accept such a nomination without including the entourage of people who have continued to make it even remotely possible. Thus the photo concept of the names which were written onto my naked, scarred torso making it just edgy enough to qualify for placement. Regardless, these two publications have done an amazing job of highlighting some important issues and bringing the ovarian ick, to the surface. So, I thank you.

Thank you, Ben-Ben… rockstar documentarian who always pulls my ideas out of my head and turns them into pixels.

Ok, so there comes a point when you’ve committed to blogging where, say, you don’t for a while and then you feel completely and utterly overwhelmed with all the updates, pictures and little ditties that need to be said to bring everyone up to date, but then you realize that not only is this bit about blogging going to be a TOTAL run on sentence and grammatically incorrect on a million levels, but that it’s been over 2 months since you updated last, and then you just sit and stare at your computer screen in a coffee shop surrounded by a lot of other stumped bloggers and think, crap… Facebook updates just aren’t cutting it, I just need a total cleanse. A blogoscopy.

This is my view right now. Mrs. Cheryl McIntosh is on a mission to detoxify me. AND she just scowled at me because after detailing all the the kinds of sugar I can’t eat anymore, I popped a sweetTart in my mouth and laughed. Stubborn? No. Deliberately rebellious? Nah. <insert another sweetTart here>

So instead of “Rice Krispy covered french toast”, she’s using words like: enzymes, burdock tea, yeast flakes, beets, dandelion root, liver and colon. And where she thinks she’s hilarious by making a play on words using the word Whey. Like, let’s make some “whey delicious pancakes.”, uh huh, you’re funny.

So here we are, in February. It’s been a freakin’ doozy of a lot of days and weeks filled with a lot of stuff that has been both really good, and also, really lame. We’re in over 6 months of this stuff. For some that may seems like no time at all, but for us, it’s been life altering on every level and unfortunately been the cloud over just about every single day.

It’s ALL we talk about. I’m kind over it. The last several months have been filled to the brim with downers and hope (mostly hope) but the downers are enough to sweep you out at the knee and knock you flat. Here’s the cool part… all of us in this together… we know more this year than we did last year, on SO many levels we’re just more wise. Confucius says … “By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest. So much has been experienced and only half of it has anything to do with cancer.

After a return to the hospital by ambulance for a crazy week of ANOTHER abdominal surgery, NG tubes, an ER visit for a busted open incision and our final (God willing) dose of chemo (this time, Carboplatinum, errrrr harf) … I will, with no pride, admit to being completely wiped out. I’m tired both physically and in my soul. Way deep down. Physically, I know I’m in for the long haul for recovery… emotionally, I’m turning a very wide corner… finally. I can finally see beyond today.

My friends have been incredible. Months and months later, still here, fighting along side me, literally tredging through no different than I am, providing everything from their smiling presence, to bags of fresh oranges, from homemade dinners and gift certificates to hospital visits and kiddo pick-ups, from cards, emails and weekend visits with plans to only chill and devour entire bags of chili cheese Fritos to homemade hats, wraps, jewelry and beyond, from midnight texts and charity benefits, to entire Fridays in the sun … it’s all a constant reminder that we ALL are intimately loved by the God who has infinite resources, that come in the form of these amazing people, these helping hands… adding strength and courage to any fight. I swear, without them, I wouldn’t try this hard. They are there for my sad days with endless solace and support and on the blessed victorious days, with tearful cheers. So much grace has been extended… I am constantly reminded that, I too, have so much of it to give. What a lesson! And while I struggle with letting down my walls again, with letting (just about everyone) too close to me, while I stand at a distance and prove daily, that this walled-up girl, isn’t always so tough…. always trying to keep hearts safe and the hurt and fear far away… while still trying to live out in the transparent open air of what life really is– with all it’s treacherous risk and unknown potential.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless–it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

So now we wait, to see how my body responded to all these months of ca-ca and ick, and pray, that God will keep it forever gone — and while that seems SO incredibly NOT easy; I keep thinking how hard it must be for our God… who waits on US constantly. Daily. I know that His best work happens in the dark. In the depths. In the despair. In the worry. In the fret. When the foundation is burnt down to ash. The rebuilding begins. Teaching us to lean on Him and Him alone. My gosh, I’m learning this the hard way, always one that is constantly aware of my own limitations and others’, my own flaw, my own mistakes and short comings… only now, nearly 37 years later, that only He is consistent and steadfast. His endurance and my trusting dependence that He knows better than I do, is sufficient.  Because there isn’t any amount of darkness that even one small candle can’t brighten and in that, faith and hope are rising. Right. Now.

Less me :: more Him

I keep a trail of imagery on both Facebook and Instagram, it’s a simple way to document the little stuff… to which my friend, Lena is making me an album of as we speak!  I took this picture at one of my favorite little Bend spots and instantly posted::

      “upside.down.and.still.completely.full.”

and then found myself quietly praying….

“Jesus, there are so many changes taking place. I know change can be a good thing, and I am trusting you to show me the way and give me the strength to embrace thatchange and to be and do all you have called me to be and do.”

Oh, if it were only so easy… I wouldn’t have to pray for it.

So for now, while I struggle with being ridiculously anemic and nursing a sore incision, missing my kids on the days they are gone so much it literally slices right through me, having so little energy that I actually get frustrated with myself and how little I can do physically…. I focus on what I CAN do.

Like my dad said to me on our last day in the ER after I growled in teary frustration “ughhh, why can’t ANYTHING go right!?” … he simply said “it has… you’re ALIVE.” Oh yes… THAT. And he’s right. I am still here, my kids are healthy and happy, I am swarmed with true friends and united family so committed to seeing this through, that I have absolutely no room to bark.

Difficult… but not impossible.

That is where I “met” Jen.  A customer told me about her and her diagnosis of Stage 3c Ovarian Cancer just days after she got that terrifying news. Through conversation, I learned that her and I went to the same church.  Later that day something tugged at my heart. I knew that I had to do something. I knew with the resources I had available, I could help this stranger. I started by coordinating meals for when she came home from Portland and the months to follow but that didn’t seem like enough.  After a few phone calls and texts with Cheryl … they let me in her house! The first time I went out there, I took my Mom and my daughter. I had no idea where I was going or what I was walking in to. I was in AWE of her house.  Gorgeous.  We folded laundry, put dishes away, took trash out, brought packages in. The 2^nd time, Melissa and I had fun prepping for her return with vases of flowers, and a few understated welcome home goodies.  And then the 3^rd time. One of the ladies who had prepared a meal, wasn’t able to drive it out to Jen’s so I volunteered. I am not going to lie. I was a nervous wreck.  I have no idea why. I was finally going to meet this Woman whose house I had been to twice, whose friends I had talked to numerous times. It was like she was sort of a legend!  I also had no idea what to expect. I had never been around someone who just had a tumor removed. Someone who was the same age as me and had cancer. Who I met that day, was a Woman who would become my friend.

A friendship that I didn’t know would happen, but couldn’t be more grateful for.  Most of Jen’s friends have known her for years, grew up with her, went to college with her, have been colleagues of hers.  Not me. I never knew Jen “pre-cancer”. I can look at photos and imagine how different her life was and how drastically things have changed.   In the last 6 months, I have learned so much about Jen and about myself also. The conversations we have range from silly stuff, to real life stuff and even to scary stuff, like death.  My daughter adores her boys. If we had all the money in the world, they would have every single Angry Birds item we see.  If you have spent much time with her, you know what I am talking about when I say her presence is calming.  I have seen this thing called Cancer, bring her to some of her weakest points, both physically and emotionally.  Heartbreaking.

The other night when we were chatting, she said she hadn’t written a blog post in a long time, and she felt badly. I told her to have someone else write it and she asked if I wanted to. My heart skipped a beat.  Sure. But what did she want me to write about? She said, my view, my perspective. I always seem to have plenty to say but as I was writing this, my words did not flow as gracefully as I imagined.  My view and perspective is more than I could write in a blog. To be a part of a tribe surrounding Jen, is seriously wordless. It has reminded me that no matter how much or little you are there, YOU are a support and an encouragement to someone.  I guess what I am trying to say is this: wherever you are reading this:  on your couch, in your bed, on your phone, hopefully not while driving , at work, at home or at school, wherever you are, you can make a difference. You may think you are “blessing” someone but at the same time, open your heart, your ears and your eyes and take in the unexpected that may come your way. You never know where a friendship will begin.

-Marla

I’m ridiculously behind. Like, REALLY behind. It’s been over a month and since my brain is fried from chemo-juice, I may or may not be able to recall a month’s worth of events (or the conversation I probably had with you yesterday). I’ll give it a shot.

It’s been a colossal month. We started treatment in Bend and fell in love with my oncologist, Dr. Kornfeld, who just so happens to be freaking amazing on every level. He’s personable, lovable, warm, funny and gives the best hugs ever. He gives me high 5′s when I gain weight and gives me permission to eat things everyone else tells me not to eat. He lets me obsess over my blood test results and accommodates all of my incessant questions and premature planning. I love him to pieces. The nurses here too. Seriously, amazing. Every single one of them, we have already fallen in love with. LOVE. Like, little, puffy, hand-drawn hearts appear magically and float all around them when they walk into the room.

So, a couple weeks ago… we decided to do the infamous BRCA test. (we call it Braw-ka). It’s genetic testing. Expensive, but totally worth the peace of mind. My main concern was for Bella, my niece … being the only other female under me on the Burgess side; I wanted to make sure SHE wouldn’t have this to face later, and if it was genetic, we could have her tested early. (Early detection, people!) Also, incase you didn’t know. Breast cancer is kind of like the horrible step-sister to ovarian cancer. I’m actually at high risk to get it. So is anyone I gave birth to. Like, my own boys. Yup, men get breast cancer too. We got lucky. It was negative. (In my heart, I already knew this.) This was not a genetic cancer… it was indeed, “environmental”. Here’s the quintessential piece of token cancer’y advise you’re obligated to get from me … if you think something is wrong, it probably is. Who cares if you sound like a neurotic hypochondriac. Pain is your body’s way of telling you something is off. Listen to it. If you have a lump, get it checked. If you have a pain, ask about it. If they don’t listen to you, ask again. If you feel weird, ask for a blood test. If your lymph nodes are swollen, ANYwhere… have them checked.

**Note to men … those are NOT your lymph nodes. So, stop it.

Roughly two weeks after my first chemo, I knew my hair would start to be an issue. So… because I’m kind of a control freak, I took the reigns on that one. The first phase was just cutting off most of my hair to a short bob until we were ready to take’r down. Then we rallied the troops and had a head shaving night at Salon Envy. Ben came with his gear and we documented the night which ranged from giggles, to tears, to weeping and back to giggles again.(there is a video coming and we’ll put all the images up at that point.) I will say this…  it was most definitely the most emotionally traumatic part so far. I didn’t think I would care about it until the moment JUST before we started, and I let out the most primal gasp and exhale of held in tears. Everyone just stopped and let me have it. I pulled myself together and that was that. Done.

The boys thought it was pretty cool.

A question I get a lot right now is… “What does chemo FEEL like, does it hurt?”

Chemo days are a trip. I have to gear UP for them. Now that I know what to expect, I don’t get anxious about it anymore, but I do dread them. Those days are LONG. They are boring. My tribe is there and I’m constantly worried about THEM being bored. Being tired. Being hungry. Being uncomfortable sitting in those ridiculous hospital chairs in that tiny little room they give us. My dad never brings anything with him. No books or magazines. No ipad. No computer. It bugs me.

But chemo itself is just sucky. It’s 10 hours of infusion. That means, dripping a long, slow drip of craptastic into my uncooperative veins after maybe 4 attempts at an IV. The chemo itself doesn’t hurt. But the process is uncomfortable. Once they start the stomach port infusion, I’m usually pretty full of fluid. I get REALLY uncomfortable around hour 7. By then I’m usually 5 bags of fluids in. I’m visibly swollen and feel ridiculously full. That night, is usually pretty uncomfortable and I’m typically pretty wired from the steroids they pump in that day. By the next day, I’m tinkling a lot. Like, lots. But the side effects don’t typically kick in until day 2 and they are really bad on day 3 and 4. Typically, I  feel as though I can’t move without help.   As the treatments have gone on and the cumulative effects of chemo have caught up with me, it seems like each infusion is a tad bit worse.  I usually wake up feeling like I have the worst hang over ever.  The side-effects usually kick in and every bone in my body usually aches. My skin feels flu-ish thin and paper-fragile. My muscles usually throb or burn a low, steady pain. It’s weird and kind of indescribable. Any strong smell is usually too much. It reminds me of pregnancy. I get intensely nauseas over brewed coffee or the smell of meat cooking.  I usually feel weary tired but the kicker to the steroids is they make you unable to sleep. Nothing really helps either … not really. The steroids make it bearable, I’ve tried smoking pot and hate it, eating usually helps but the nausea makes that pretty hard, all in all … the days following chemo are pretty painful. I remember my dad came over one day, during the last double-dose we got, and I was on day 8 or 9 of being in bed straight, and I just started crying like a little girl. It just hurt THAT bad. Every so often, my mind literally just goes blank and I have trouble even finishing a thought or a conversation. The most recent side effect has been thumping in my ears… kind of like the sound of a distant helicopter… not continuous, but frequent enough to be annoying. The symptoms that come with each treatment only last for a few days – longer as treatment goes on – but for the first 6 or so treatments, those post-treatment symptoms would only last a week or so, depending on how much chemo I get. The last round was harsh, but the single dose I got after it was great! I just never know what to expect. Since my treatments are only a week apart there isn’t much time between to feel good. When they give me a week break, I actually get a good solid week of feeling good. Those days, are AWESOME. Like nothing hurts!  I could think and actually REMEMBER conversations and I didn’t need a nap! Every treatment so far,  I have a moment – after the side effects wean and I started to feel normal again where I just marvel at how good it felt to feel good. To feel N O R M A L.

On these days, I actually feel guilty. Guilty for leaving my bed, for putting on my new fancy wig, for having plans, for drinking a beer, for being out at a restaurant, for NOT being sick. Like, I have cancer… I’m not allowed this. Some people NEVER get to feel good.

I will and AM letting go of everything else, all of it…  (you know… the ick and muck we all carry around like the initial swellings of grudges and anger and resentment and self-protection and heart guards and walls and…. and…) and clinging ON to the GOOD. There is SO MUCH GOOD.

I keep asking myself, have I lived enough IN the moment? In THIS moment?

To love life wildly enough to fight FOR it.

“Joy is always a function of gratitude — and gratitude is always a function of perspective. If we are going to change our lives, what we’re going to have to change is the way we see.”

Cancer is changing the way I see. Or maybe it’s God, USING cancer to change the way I see?

Difficult, but NOT impossible.

Please allow me to preface the following by saying:  I don’t text, nor tweet, nor blog.  I don’t have a Facebook Wall and if I send an email, it is usually a forwarded forward.  So as not to seem hypocritical, the following is posted due to the love, beauty and grace of my wonderful bride, Patti.

Patti and I were relaying the day’s adventures on August 30, 2011 when the phone rang.  A call from my son Nathan was not uncommon. After his usual obnoxious greeting, he relayed to me that we needed to head to the hospital right away, “Jennifer may have cancer.”  Little did I know, that call, would change my life forever.  Having to watch my daughter endure a hysterectomy and go through chemo therapy, I felt terror!

I hung up immediately and looked at Patti with a look that only a deer starring down two headlights at 60 miles an hour could appreciate.  “What’s wrong?” was her response when she saw the tears in my eyes.  I don’t recall my answer.  We were in the car instantaneously.  After traveling the 6 mile trip to the hospital at speeds that should have alerted any first responder worth their salt, we arrived at the Emergency door.

Even though the waiting room was filled with well-wisher’s, I saw only my daughter, the little girl who wanted me to fix her “booboo.”  A kiss and a band aid wasn’t going to fix it this time.  I didn’t know, that moment would set into motion, a tear filled month to follow and every moment would be consumed with the emotions of her struggles.

On September 1^st, along with Jennifer, Jake and Jen’s sister in-law Kacy, we met with the doctor to hear the results of the CT scan and blood work.  The doctor entered the exam room only to break out in tears.  “You have a mass on your ovaries,” was all she said.  The room went silent.  Our worst fears were confirmed. .  I felt this couldn’t be happening to her, she is so young and strong.  There is no family history.  I wanted the doctor to pull it together, thinking, “She doesn’t need to see the doctor in tears.”

After a long pause, we asked about our options.

We decided on surgery with an aggressive attack on the enemy that was living within her.  Jennifer named the alien…”Herm.”

September 6^th, 2011 was a day that lives in my less than 3 megabits of memory forever.  After the three hour trip from Central Oregon to Portland’s Providence Hospital we were directed to the surgical waiting area.  We were pleased to see other family, friends and well-wishers, 20 in all, and more to come.

We were ushered alone or in pairs to Jennifer’s Pre-Op room.  I was second as I recall but in the moment, does it matter?

Jennifer and I had a spiritual and loving moment prior to her surgery.  As I watched the anesthesiologist insert needles and tubes into my daughter’s body all I could do was pray.  I hugged and kissed her and was very apprehensive at leaving but knew others wanted to see her.  When I left the room I told the nurses to take good care of my little girl.

After the surgery which seemed to take a lifetime, we all awaited the surgeon’s surgical report.  “All went according to our surgical plan,” the surgeon stated matter-of-factly.  The packed consultation room exhausted a simultaneous breath of relief.  I even hugged my ex-wife (Jennifer’s mother) which 20 years ago would have been at best unthinkable.

Since that day, Jennifer has had ups and downs with attitude and how she viewed her treatment.  I am proud to say that today we have been successful in moving Jennifer’s treatment from Portland to Bend, removing the tedious 3 hour one way drive weekly for chemo.  We have found a wonderful local oncologist willing to take her case.

Jennifer is currently in her second round of chemo which will probably last through February 2012.

I continually pray for my firstborn every day, all day, but have turned her over to the Great Healer, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Today I see Jennifer as a beautiful, strong and courageous, entrepreneur determined to fight the evil within.  I am extremely proud of the woman she has become.  God has blessed her in so many ways.  We will beat this!

What I have always told my children is, “If you only have one true friend in life you are truly blessed.”  Jennifer is blessed beyond measure.  Thank you to Niki, Brandy, Cheryl, Elaine, and many, many more.  Thanks also to the 5,000 plus people supporting her daily via email and meals and fundraisers. I also thank my wife Patti who has been at my side through it all.  And Jake.  He has gone above and beyond all our expectations.  He is a wonderful man and we love him.

God blesses those who love Him.

Bill Burgess (Jennifer’s Dad)

It was a huge mixture of emotions to go visit Jen in Oregon last week. I knew that I wanted to be there for the first round of chemo, but I honestly didn’t know what to expect. I was scared, nervous and oddly excited to see my new family away from family.

I admit that I was shocked to see how thin Jen has really gotten. At 6 feet tall, her bony little arms and legs truly startled me. She still looks as gorgeous as ever, but up until now, it’s been kind of easy to pretend that she’s not sick. Not anymore.

The drive to Portland was long and quiet. Jake and I in the front and Jen snuggled in the back. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts. None of us knew what to expect.

Jen slept.

The cancer center smells funny. Like a hospital, but more chemical-y. You can’t trick yourself to think it’s a hotel, it just has a medical feeling. There are big reclining easy chairs all over the place, and lots and lots of old people. I think that surprised me the most, so few younger people. Jen and another girl were the youngest there. It’s weird to think at 36 that we are considered young, but it’s true. We have a lot of life yet to live.

I felt very honored to be able to be included in the conversation with Jen’s oncologist. It was a serious talk. The chemo treatment is aggressive because ovarian cancer likes to come back. What they cut out during surgery WILL grow back if the chemo doesn’t kill it. So Jen needs to do chemo each week, for two weeks on, one week off. For 18 weeks. It’s a LOT. She does an IV as well as a port in her abdomen. They need to fill her abdomen with chemotherapy to kill all the cancer ‘flecks’ in there.

Jen is amazing. She doesn’t flinch when they stick her with a needle. Even in her stomach, which made ME wince. The only thing that she was affected by was the numbing spray! The chemo took hours and we were the last to leave. We chatted, joked, texted and were sometimes just quiet. I’m so happy that she has such a good support system with Jake, her dad and Patti there. They are just as strong as Jen is, which is important.

Jen slept.

The drive back home was uncomfortable for Jen. Her stomach was distended from all the drugs pumped in there. She just felt ‘full’. It made for a very long day – 6 hours in the car and 7 of chemo. I honestly think that will be the worst part, especially with winter coming and having to travel through the mountains.

Jen slept.

The next few days were spent watching a lot of Bravo and the E! channel. Jen introduced me to all her favorite shows and when she wasn’t sleeping, we giggled at all the silly reality shows. Dirty Soap anyone? I’m addicted now, and probably annoyed Jen with all my ‘who’s that?’ and ‘what is she mad about?’.

Jen slept.

I just puttered around the house. Played with the boys, talked to Jake. He made me watch American Restoration one day but I don’t understand why you’d want to make a cool looking old wagon into a brand-new looking one!

On my last night, Cheryl came over and made tacos for everyone. We had some beers and hung out and just talked. The boys spent about an hour making the most AWESOME Angry Birds restaurant with menus, fancy table setting and actual food. I got the ‘special’ cupcake because Cohen and I are getting married someday.

Jen slept.

My last day was bittersweet. Jen had made it through the chemo without throwing up. She was actually awake and feeling a bit better. I was so happy for those things but so sad to be leaving. I love my friends and family in Calgary, but right now my heart is in Oregon.

-Brandy

I’m thinking back to a week ago this time, and at how very low I was, how small I had let myself get and how I had allowed myself to spin in my own reality, literally bowing down to anything and everything bigger than me. (which right now, feels like almost everything.)

My dad came over unexpectedly (probably because I quit answering my phone for days) the day before my first chemo round, walked into my room, and after I melted into a weepy puddle just at seeing him, ever so subtly, took on the role to kick my ass. “Get dressed, come ‘on, let’s go.” As we walked towards the stairs, he stopped me to look at a picture of me and the boys hanging on the wall that my friend Marla took of us in Florida 3 years ago, big giggling smiles, unaware of the trials ahead we were racing to, and he said “THIS is why… THIS is why you’re fighting.”

After that day of sitting in a diner booth, cramming eggs and ham down my throat at his every scowl, I just thought … “ okay, here we go.”  I didn’t get all brave or upright. I didn’t stand up and proclaim courage and endurance. I just quit crying. What right do I have to complain about anything? I am not owed a damn thing and I deserve so, so much less.  I’m sure we can make ourselves either happy or miserable. The amount of work is probably the same for both.

I think about what “joy” means a lot now, and where it comes from. He says to us …”that my joy might remain in you, and that your joy might be full.” Where have I forced my joy to come from? What have I focused on and allowed to feed my well of happiness that was wrongfully assigned? How often do I feel entitled or due? Whether it be a certain type of car, or those perfect pair of jeans or that one and only person that was made just for me, or that promotion at work, or going through my day without a grievance or complaint. “If only I had….”

So, this last week, I just started working on my freaking attitude. That is ONE thing I have control over. It doesn’t mean I poof into a realm of non-fear. (I’m freaking scared!). It doesn’t mean I’m not going to feel like crap.
(I do!) It just means I don’t have to feel powerless and anxious and full of worry. I can give that up, because He tells us to. Oh, how it’s the lesson of this season for me.

Ok… so. Chemo. After I just wrote a drawn out yawner about joy and non-complaint…. chemo freaking sucks. I keep telling myself it wasn’t as bad as I had myself all built up for, but I had noooooooooo idea it would hit me as hard as it did. So here’s the gig… since I have 3c ovarian cancer, that little “c” means I have tiny little specs left in my abdominal area after the surgery, scattered all over. Their best attack at that, is to literally pour chemo all over my guts. Yes, they actually roll me around to make sure it gets all over. So, I have this needle in my stomach and an IV in my arm doing normal infusion. For six hours. It’s kind of a double hit. Most just have the IV. But alas, they duped me cool enough to get the IV and the IP… um, at once. I’m going to admit, it’s not awesome. The exhaustion that hits is like a train, like a Nyquil train and the feeling that takes over your core is like a wooshy, heavy swirl that is just enough nauseating to make every smell and every food repulsive. Subsequently, I didn’t eat for 3 days which is not what I needed whatsoever. Around the 4th day, I finally started feeling able to sit upright and a smoothie even sounded appetizing. Success! It didn’t kill me. Now, for the next hit…. in two days.

Thank God, Brandy was here. With her bouncing curls and her knee high socks, she was this ray of sunshine that just appeared and made sure I was giggling and happy. She made the long trip here from Canada, then to Portland and back and sat bedside with me while I was literally dead asleep for 3 days. I think she may have seen my eyes open 4 times. She played with my boys and kept Jake entertained and kept my parents giggling. Perfect.
Jake has been awesome taking on the full load of just about everything. Kids, school, houses, errands, my meds… his mom has been here to help when he’s working and we’ve had an endless parade of meals and help from friends and beyond. SO, incredibly blessed and grateful.

What I’m praying for now, is for grace and mercy from my poor clients who have been waiting on me to finish their projects, the ability to get caught up with work and the strength to start planning ahead for new design work as it’s what I’m limited to for now. Praying God keeps my hands free and nimble from neuropathy so that I’m able to and that projects presents themselves as He sees fit. For understanding in the things that I don’t understand. For the ability to rest in things I’ll never be able to control.

….difficult… but not impossible.

I’m sitting here a’top my billowy white bed realizing today is October 12th and knowing I’m only one day away from starting this battle. October 13th has been looming. It just has. I’ve felt like anything but a powerhouse. In my mind, sadly, it hasn’t been the start of all this… I feel like I’ve been viewing it like the end. Needless to say, I’ve had a rough couple weeks. I’ve really let my mind play some yucky tricks on me and with that, I’ve spun in some really negative directions. Spending the time alone that I have, I’ve reached down pretty deep. I’ve analyzed a whole lot, places I haven’t let myself look at for a long time and I’ve promised myself that I’d be transparent about what this looks like. From where I sit. For me. For my “tribe” and for anyone else who has to go through this someday. The thing about digging deep and being visceral… is the stuff that rises up from learning lessons the hard way and not knowing it until you’re looking back ON it. Looking back at things that were selfish or misguided or just plain stupid. I look around my loft and it tells a story of where I’m at right now. Doesn’t everything in our lives? The people who are in our lives in that chapter. The things the change. The things that remain unchanged. The bits in our refrigerator. The clothes hanging in our closet. The crumbs on the kitchen counter. The coffee mug left from that morning. Isn’t it all telling a story?

I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t recognize me. My body is small and tired. It’s weak and fragile. It’s been torn apart by knives and medications. It’s not my own. I started letting my mind and heart duplicate the image of what my body looked like on the outside. I have felt shredded. Torn apart. Angry. Compromised. Discarded. Frail. Small. Fragile. Weak.

Weak in spirit.

Weak in strength.

Weak in power.

Weak in courage.

Weak in self.

And amidst the constant visitors and helpers and friends and family… I feel completely alone.

This is not who I am. I want to be a warrior.

You know how when something breaks… and you’re pissed and you glue it all back together to salvage it, because you just can’t bare to throw it out and you finally get it all pieced back whole, but you can still see all the slivered lines? The fault lines. The broken pieces. I kind of feel like that right now… that I’m still whole, I’m still here…but just barely. Just hardly in one piece and only because of the glue … the goop in all those lines that keep everything from coming apart, into pieces. My family is my goop. My friends are my goop. The amazing support streaming in from a thousand places on this globe are my goop. Thank GOD for them. They are keeping me whole.

There is a song by one of my favorite groups, Needtobreathe, called Second Chances.
I listen to it a lot lately….I feel like it’s speaking on how I’ve felt this week.
_
All my past is color

Placed inside my hands

Empty is the canvas

Patiently I plan

Stars are bright above me

That’s not where I am

Greens will be behind me

Blues will make the man

I can’t help but fear I’ve done this wrong

Cause seldom second chances come along

Greys are all around me

Fading into black

Stars were bright above me

Won’t you bring them back

I can’t help but fear I’ve done this wrong

Cause seldom second chances come along

If time can break us, will it make us strong

Cause seldom second chances come along

_

My sister-in-law, Kacy (we call her Sissy) … said something to me the other night while laying next to me buried under my covers. “Jen, you fight for EVERYTHING. For EVERYONE. Everything you believe in, you FIGHT for. You stand up for it all. Why aren’t you standing up for YOU right now?”

Her words matter to me.

I didn’t even know what to say.

I knew this was going to be hard. I knew I’d start out with vigor with the adrenaline of the first week, the surgery and the mind spins of survival. I look at my boys every single day and internally scream to myself…. “I DON’T WANT TO MISS A MINUTE OF THEM!!”

Then I get angry. Then the weakness sets in. It’s a vicious cycle that’s consumed me this last week. I feel like I don’t have a right to feel that way. That it’s up to me to push this down. And it’s not even so much in being sick, but all the peripheral crap that falls in at the same time. The unreal timing of it all. Withstanding the disappointment. The things or people you thought would be there. The financial pressure and worry by not working. The stress on family and the decisions that have to be made. I feel like I’m being a let down by being scared. God is doing some major stuff in me right now. Why do I fight it so hard?

It begins tomorrow. I have found a subtle and buried beauty in this darkness. No one else can see it right now but me. It’s mine.

God, brace me with your strength tomorrow. Give me all you have.