No Expiration Date

It may not be evident from reading my posts, since they’re usually written about cancer, but I actually don’t think about my disease very much. I go about my daily routine without any thoughts about my health. There are those times, however, when I’m likely to think about it more. November is one of those times, for it marks the anniversary of when I found out I had cancer.

Those initial days three years ago come flooding back, and I once again relive the anxiety, the doctors’ visits, the tests, the biopsy, the diagnosis, the fear. I’ve written in previous posts that, although this is uncomfortable, self-reflection is necessary for each of us because it is important to remember where we’ve been in order to see how far we’ve come. This November, a new feeling is being added to the list – that of victory – and that is the real topic of this entry.

When I was first diagnosed, I told my doctors I didn’t want to hear statistics, like survival rates, and I decided that I wouldn’t ask any questions to which I really didn’t want to hear the answer. This wasn’t denial, mind you. I just didn’t want a self-fulfilling prophecy lurking in the deep corners of my mind. And then I asked a question.

When I was told I was terminal in March 2015, I asked how much time I had. I felt it was a practical question – knowing how much time I had to get my affairs in order. The answer was that the average length of survival for someone in my condition was 18-20 months. Right there and then, I put an expiration date on myself. Even though I didn’t think about it often, it was there, looming like the countdown clocks that read “32 days till Christmas.” Well, guess what? It’s 20 months later and I don’t feel like I’m going anywhere any time soon. In fact, I feel a sense of freedom, of achievement, of happiness by reaching this page on the calendar. I feel like I’ve beaten some odds. I’ve torn off that expiration label, and a new one will not take its place.

It’s made me ponder how often we must go through life listening to things people tell us (or even the things we say to ourselves) and then end up letting those things define who we are. I’m making a choice at this point to get rid of any “best by [insert date]” labels in my life, especially one that suggests how much time I may have on this Earth. Only the Great Physician knows that. I will no longer feel shackled by an approaching date on the calendar, even if those shackles are not always foremost in my thoughts. Perhaps November will be a time of self-reflection for you as well – a time for you to get rid of any labels you have and approach the holidays fetter-free.

As this Thanksgiving draws near, I give thanks for those of you who read and comment on this blog; my family and friends; my hands-on caregivers; and, the distant caregivers who give support through their thoughts, love, and prayers. I am so grateful for all my blessings. Here’s to a Happy Thanksgiving – and one without labels.

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Rainbows and Moles

My, what a difference a day makes. I started composing this post three days ago as I was driving to work. It was raining, yet the sun was out, so I started looking for rainbows. I’ve been seeing them a lot lately, or, at least, the conditions that produce them.

It started a couple weeks ago. I was leaving the hospital after being rejected for chemo because my bone marrow was in bad shape, having not recovered from the previous treatment. I was disappointed, to say the least — another two weeks of not actively fighting the cancer. Then I saw the biggest rainbow I had ever seen. I don’t recall ever seeing a full arch rainbow ever in my life – this one, however, could not be missed. It seemed like it covered the entire sky, stretching miles from end to end. I pulled over to take a picture, but it was so big that I couldn’t get the entire arch in the frame. In addition to its size, there was the beginning of a second rainbow right beside it. It would have to remain, as one of my friends says, in the photo album in my mind.

Since then, there have been an unusually high number of days where the sun has been out while it was raining. Some of the resulting rainbows I could see, others I couldn’t, usually because I was driving. I suppose that’s what faith is like – knowing that something is out there, but not being able to see it.

As I was driving through the “sunny rain” two days ago, it occurred to me that maybe the rainbows had been another hummingbird experience. After all, in the Bible, the rainbow represents God’s promise. I reveled in the idea that God was sending me promises.

That was supposed to be the end of my post. Then the next day came.

I went to the hospital to start another 24-hour round of chemo (the one that had been postponed two weeks earlier), only to be rejected again. My bone marrow still hadn’t recovered, so still no cancer treatment for me. I just heard bits and pieces of the conversation that followed; I couldn’t find any silver lining to what was being said and my usual optimism started to dwindle.

I left feeling like I was playing “Whack-a-Mole” and I was the mole. I’m sure you remember this arcade game, which was especially popular at county fairs. You try to hit moles that pop up at random with a mallet to push them back into their holes. I thought, “How much disappointment, setbacks, and bad news am I supposed to take? How many times am I going to be hit with the mallet and pushed back into my hole?” — an especially frustrating thought when I’ve tried to be so optimistic and faith-focused during this battle. I went home and had quite the pity party.

So what’s a girl to do next? I woke up yesterday to a new day, put my big girl pants on, and started looking for rainbows. I have yet to see one, but, then again, the last two days have been sunny, which is a good thing. I know the rainbows will be back, though. After all, as Michael Krauszer stated in one of his blog posts, “It [a rainbow] can provide us with comfort, knowing that even after a terrible storm, God can and will be with us.”

Share the strength.

An Open Letter of Thanksgiving

I have so much to give thanks for this holiday. While it’s true November is a time of sad anniversaries for me, it is also an opportunity to openly thank the people who are lifting me up in so many different ways.

There are those who are providing “hands-on” care: an ex-husband who takes me to my medical appointments every week; a dear friend who drives nine hours just to spend 24 hours hanging out with me; the neighbors who will do anything for me on a moment’s notice; and, my faculty colleagues who stop in to see how I’m doing and bring me food.

There are many others who aren’t here in person, because they don’t live close by. Yet their role in assisting me is equally important: my sister and cousins, the strength and love of whom I feel with me every day; the people I grew up with in my hometown of Martinsburg, West Virginia, who are constantly keeping me in prayer; other friends, family, professional colleagues, and alumni who send me notes of support, books, and little surprises that make me smile on a regular basis.

There are even strangers who have gone out of their way to help me, such as the folks at Delta. I hate to fly. I mean, I REALLY hate to fly. It’s to a phobia level. My general rule of thumb is to drive if I can get to where I need to be in the time allotted; however, sometimes I don’t have that luxury of time. Such was the case when I needed to get to Denver for my nephew’s wedding. I bit the bullet and purchased my airline ticket; however, my phobia didn’t turn out to be the main problem. I realized as soon as I got to the airport that, physically, this was going to be a challenge.

Thank you to the woman at the check-in (whose name I believe was Cathy) who zeroed in on this right away and offered me wheelchair assistance for the first flight, my connecting flight and my destination. Thank you to the sky caps who whizzed me through terminals, up and down elevators, and in and out of shuttles. Thank you to the flight attendants who checked on my comfort. Thank you, Delta – you love to fly and it shows!

Finally an especially big thank you to those of you who read this blog. Nothing has made me so fulfilled in the last 20 months than sharing my thoughts with you. If I have touched even one person, I consider that a blessing. When a tragedy strikes, whether it’s a life-threatening illness or something else, you almost always ask “Why?” From the beginning of this blog, I felt like I was supposed to go through cancer in order to write, share, and hopefully lift up others. Every visitor, every comment, every follower, every “like” on Facebook links to posts means more to me than I can say and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The list of people I owe thank you notes to is lengthy and dates have long passed (my mother would not approve!). I’m sorry for not being better at minding my etiquette during this second battle with cancer, which has zapped me a bit more than the first. However, please know that I am grateful for all your gestures, big and small, and give thanks for having you in my life.

The Ides of November

“Beware the Ides of March.” Yes, I realize it’s not quite the 13^th (or 15^th, for that matter) of the month and it’s not March. I’m rather conjuring up the phrase that has now evolved to being a metaphor for impending doom. I know what you’re thinking: “Wow, this will be an uplifting post!” It’s true that this won’t be all sugar and spice and everything nice. However, it’s not all gloomy and I think the topic is important.

I am very good at not focusing on bad things, which is why I wrote a post earlier this year on being “Queen of De-Nial.” I think it’s OK to practice denial. However, sticking your head in the sand and totally ignoring what’s happening in your life is not healthy. It’s good to have reality checks once in a while, and that’s what November does for me.

November 2013 held a lot of firsts for me. I went to my doctor about the swelling on my leg on Nov. 1. Although she didn’t think it was anything to worry about, she finally conceded to my getting an MRI after lots of anxious begging. I had that MRI two years ago today. On Nov. 12, she called me into her office to tell me about the “suspicious mass” that was most likely soft tissue sarcoma. Then it was Roswell Park’s turn. On Nov. 14, I met my surgeon for the first time. A biopsy followed on Nov. 19 and, on Nov. 26, my worst fears were confirmed: I had Stage 3 leimyoscarcoma, a type of soft tissue sarcoma that was rare and aggressive.

It’s hard for me to ignore these “anniversaries” and I don’t think I should. When each of these milestone days arrive with the turn of the calendar, I think about where I was and what I was thinking – and that’s positive, because it shows me how far I’ve come in two years. Yes, I still have cancer and, yes, it has spread; however, the bottom line is I’m still here after all I’ve been through – daily trips for radiation, hospital stays, surgeries, transfusions, chemo, and on and on — and that’s something to cheer about.

I believe that, once in a great while, it’s OK to acknowledge and reflect on the negative parts of our life, looking at where we have been — and where we are now.

Share the strength.

A Break in the Clouds

A brief weather report from yesterday:

I was driving home from work and noticed the cloud formations in front of me – a series of ripples that almost looked like waves, with no sun in sight. There was just a bunch of horizontal lines of clouds, piled one on top of the other.

I looked to my right and saw dark gray clouds over the lake. That’s never a good sign. They were very threatening looking, and I knew they held nothing positive within them.

I looked to the left (yes, I really was still paying attention to my driving!). The sky was covered with so many clouds, you could actually see the layers. The clouds appeared in different shapes and colors, ranging from white and fluffy to light and dark gray. Then I saw it – a little patch of blue – and I knew the sun was out there somewhere waiting for the clouds to pass.

It made me think how often we get tunnel vision and get fixated in looking at things one way, and sometimes that can lead to only seeing things negatively. We may need to change the direction in which we’re looking a couple times before we can find something positive, something hopeful. Next time it looks completely cloudy ahead, change the direction in which you’re looking or try out that peripheral vision you have – you might just see a small patch of blue.

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I’m a Weeble

I don’t remember the last time I got really good news from my oncologist. Just when I think things are going well, BOOM, something gets in the way. So far, the only progress that has been made regarding my health has been made by the tumors, which continue to get bigger and have gotten more aggressive recently. Almost every time I have gone to the doctor in the last few months, a bomb has dropped and my spirits drop with it. There have been times when I thought I would never regain my positive outlook on life, or even stop crying for that matter.

In August, I was taken off chemo after just barely starting because it was doing too much damage to my liver and bone marrow. The news was devastating to me – how was I supposed to fight cancer without any treatment? I felt like a soldier without a gun. I usually try to be stoic in the doctor’s office; however, this time, the news was a little more than I could handle. I crumbled – and, once again, I thought there was no way I would be able to crawl out of the depths of my disappointment. But I did. I’ve discovered I’m a Weeble.

People of a certain age remember these egg-shaped character toys that featured the tagline, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” There have surely been times during the last two years that I have been parallel to the floor, but somehow I keep returning to an upright position. I’m not sure why this is. It most likely was the way I was raised. My father had a wonderful, positive outlook on life; he expressed his faith through his actions every day.

In a post last year, I talked about denial, optimism, and faith – a combination that I believe are characteristics of Weebles, at least they are for this Weeble. Denial comes in handy when I look in the mirror and don’t see a sick person, and I’m as active as I ever was. A stranger would never know what’s going on inside my body. In fact, I refuse to identify myself as being sick and have banned the word from my friends’ vocabulary, as well. Don’t get me wrong – I am not pretending that I don’t have terminal cancer; however, it doesn’t need to be my main focus in life.

I think that denial helps me be optimistic. I have found that once I absorb the bad news from the doctor’s office, I can pick out a nugget of news that is positive, making the bad news fade into the distance of denial. Yes, I had to have a lung resection, but two of the tumors taken out were the biggest ones at the time. Yes, I have a lot of tumors, but there aren’t any new ones. Yes, the tumors have gotten bigger, but now I’m eligible for a clinical trial. I can hang my hat on those nuggets and be optimistic again, hoping for the best.

Then, of course, there is faith. Once shattered when I found out the cancer has returned, my faith is stronger than ever. For the first time, I intimately understand something my father always said: “I don’t worry because I’ve turned all my troubles over to the Lord. If I’m still worrying, I haven’t truly turned them over.” I don’t know if I’ve quite done that; however, I do know that I have a calmness that I haven’t experienced for a long time.

I hope the Weeble in me continues to do its job – just wobbling, but not falling down.

Share the strength.

New Beginnings

The calendar on the wall says fall has arrived; however, my mind is contemplating spring. Not because I’m wishing for a startover of warm weather (although that would be nice), but rather because of a feeling that spring gave me earlier this year. Spring has never been my favorite, or even second favorite, season. But this year, something different was in the air.

In the early days of spring, I was sitting in the car at a drive-thru and my attention turned to some small flowers pushing their way up through the winter soil. I then noticed small colorful buds on bushes and miniature green growth on trees. Nature was starting to become alive again, offering a new beginning.

Spring is often associated with new life — new beginnings. So I started thinking about how I have viewed new beginnings throughout my life. They have usually been associated with the calendar – New Year’s Day, the first of the month, Mondays. I’m not talking about significant life events like weddings and babies, but rather that point when many of us are most likely to make changes in our lives.

It occurred to me that, all too often, we wait for the calendar to tell us when to change when, in actuality, we could make changes any day. We don’t have to wait until New Year’s Eve to make a resolution. We don’t have to wait until the first day of the next month to start looking for a job. We don’t have to wait until Monday to start that diet. We can choose to do it anytime – we just need to choose to do it.

How wonderful it is to know that every day we wake up, we have a new opportunity to change ourselves for the better. We can certainly set our goal for a major change like seeking a new job, buying a house, or losing weight. We can also seek smaller changes — being more patient, smiling more, offering an act of kindness.

I certainly have a lot of things on my list of changes to make. What changes will YOU make tomorrow?

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Carpe Diem

I was shocked when I realized that my last post was in May – nearly four months ago! However, I have a good reason. I was busy seizing the day.

Earlier this summer, I spent time at my sister’s cabin in the beautiful West Virginia mountains, not far from where I was raised. Because of the rural location, there’s no Internet connection or cell phone service. I won’t lie – the first couple days were hard as I went through a serious case of electronics withdrawal. Then a funny thing happened. I started paying more attention to my surroundings – the gentle crackling sound of small animals running through the woods, the rustling of leaves as breezes wafted through the trees, the chirping of birds and the music of cicadas. I started to enjoy not having a laptop and cell phone as body appendages. It was a feeling I would keep all summer long.

Here are some examples of what I was doing while I was “off the grid”:

• Enjoying visits from hummingbirds
• Rediscovering how much I enjoy jigsaw puzzles
• Sitting on the beach with lifelong friends with our toes in the water
• Playing on the floor with my grandson
• Napping to the sound of waves hitting the shore
• Eating brunch on the patio
• Traveling a favorite portion of Route 66 – not once, not twice, but four times
• Sharing laughter and tears with my children
• Staring in awe at beautiful, multicolored sunsets
• Driving on back roads with the windows down singing “Bohemian Rhapsody”
• Sitting by a bonfire on the beach watching people light Chinese lanterns
• Going out for lots of lunches, suppers, and happy hours with family and friends
• Writing future blog posts in my head
• Watching thunderstorms move in across the lake
• Looking at clouds so crisp, fluffy, and white, it seemed like you could reach up and pluck one
• Holding my new granddaughter when she was less than two days old
• Hanging out at the beach bar or the pier with friends listening to music, music, and more music
• Sitting quietly with my sister in the mornings on her cabin porch or my patio
• Watching movies like “Animal House,” “Caddyshack,” and “Young Frankenstein” that never get old
• Closing my eyes, tilting my face to the sun, and feeling the breeze caress my face

Yes, it was a magnificent summer indeed. Not one day went by without enjoying it to the fullest. No Internet or cell phone needed.

I know summer is winding down, but no matter the season and no matter where you live, there are simple things in life that you can enjoy, if you just give yourself the time to do so. Start seizing the day – today.

Share the strength.

 

 

It’s All about Choices

“It’s all about choices.” That’s a phrase that a dear friend and I use at least once a week. Indeed, each of us is the sum of the choices we have made throughout our life — each decision leading us down a path that we are customizing just for us.

We make dozens of choices on a daily basis – whether to hit the snooze button one more time, what to wear, whether to go through the drive-thru instead of making dinner, to name just a few. For the most part, these aren’t going to drastically alter our life. However, there are many other decisions that will: where to work, who to marry, where to live, whether to have children. Then there are the choices you can make when it seems that you don’t really have a choice at all and that’s what I want to talk about in this post.

As a professor of public relations, one of the things I teach is crisis management. This term is actually a misnomer, because you can’t really manage a crisis; you can only manage your response to it. Life is no different. You can’t always control what happens to you; however, you CAN control how you react, and it’s those reactions that will not only determine the direction of your life, but also may reveal the person you are deep inside. The Dalai Lama said, “When we meet real tragedy in life, we can react in two ways: either by losing hope and falling into self-destructive habits, or by using the challenge to find our inner strength.”

There’s no doubt that life knocks us down at times. Sometimes it takes longer than others to get back up. But get back up we must. As I mentioned in my last post, I have started to regain my old optimism after allowing myself to indulge in a month of self-pity. While that latter attitude might be well-deserved, it won’t enrich my life. Life is what we make of it – how we react to it. I’ve never had much patience for people who complain about a situation they can control (such as hating a job, yet not looking for a new one). I realize it’s harder when it’s a situation that you can’t control. However, perhaps it’s in those situations that our choices are most important. A lifelong friend just sent me a plaque that reads “You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.” Very true. You have to play the hand you’re dealt and, hopefully, you can do that with courage and grace – a bit of humor won’t hurt either!

I expect to have to make some important choices in the next few months. As a brief follow-up to my last post, I went to Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York City last week for a second opinion and was told that I had been getting excellent care in Buffalo. The doctor also said that the treatment I had received and that has been proposed is the same she would’ve recommended. That’s comforting and reassuring. She did tell me about several upcoming clinical trials (in Buffalo and New York City) for which I might be eligible, thus the decisions coming my way. I hope I will make the right one; in the meantime, I know I’ve made the right choice in how to react to the things I can’t change.

“In the long run, we shape our lives, and we shape ourselves. The process never ends until we die. And the choices we make are ultimately our own responsibility.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

Share the strength.

 

 

Peek-a-Boo!

Yes, this IS the old Ann, poking my head up above ground cautiously like a groundhog on Feb. 2. I don’t see my shadow, so I’m predicting pleasant weather ahead. I’m happy to say that my optimism and faith are almost back to where they were before I got my recent diagnosis. In a recent post, I talked about wanting to find my sparkle again — my spark. I’m not sure about the sparkle – you’d have to ask others about that. However, I can say the spark is back. And that’s important. Emmet Fox, a New Thought leader, once said, “A small spark can start a great fire.” We know that to be true (just ask Smokey the Bear!), so I’m not going to underestimate that little light.

I’ve had so many people prop me up during the last month while I tried to restore the optimism and faith I had before my last doctor’s visit. Many of them have told me stories of people they know who have defied the odds, and they have insisted that I have it in me to be another one of those success stories. Such encouragement has made a huge difference. I’m focusing less on the things I might miss down the road if the doctor’s prognosis is correct and more on all I have in front of me right now. A dear friend of mine has always said that it’s OK to attend a pity party, as long as you don’t stay for dessert (shout-out to YO!). Well, I had not only been staying for dessert, but also staying so long that the hosts were looking at their watches. I’m back to enjoying appetizers only.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I don’t want this precious time when I’m feeling well to be squandered. I’ve been trying to spend my time constructively . . . enjoying time with friends; planning the next road trip; advising my students for next semester; participating in the Relay for Life on my campus; and, of course, writing. I’ve been practical, too. Although I love and respect my current oncology team, I’ve been persuaded to seek a second opinion and, logically, that is sound advice. It is not as easy as it seems, though. There have been obstacles, such as the rarity of my cancer and the scarcity of the experts who treat it, as well as insurance restrictions. Emails and phone calls to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and Dana-Farber in Boston went unanswered. A trip to Cancer Treatment Centers of America’s facility in Philadelphia looked promising until my HMO insurance said “no.”

Frustrated by the doors closing at every turn and feeling adrift at sea in a tiny boat being overtaken by raging storms, my sister took a walk to clear her mind and calm her spirit. During her stroll, she said she became assured that everything would be OK and, that day, everything did, indeed, turn around. She relayed this in the last post, “Walking on Water.” In her post, my sister said, “Then almost as if by magic, the boat landed immediately at the place to where they were going.” Who knew it would be the Big Apple?! What seemed to be an insurmountable quest to find someone, someplace, to look at my case has finally been successful, in no small part, we believe, to the prayers many of you have been lifting up on my behalf.

After her walk that Tuesday, my sister reached out to the chief of sarcoma oncology at Memorial Sloan Kettering in New York City, the world’s oldest and largest private cancer center. He responded immediately to say his staff would review my case. The next morning, his assistant forwarded me information on what to do next. Sloan Kettering’s Patient Access Services started a medical record for me and told me exactly what files they needed from my current oncologist (and there were a lot!). Then I was switched to the insurance representative who gave me detailed information on how to appeal to my insurance company for “out-of-network” treatment. By Wednesday afternoon, I had done everything I had been told. My physician faxed the appeal to the insurance company Thursday morning, and it was approved a few hours later. At 4 p.m., approximately 48 hours after my sister returned from her walk, Sloan Kettering called me to say that they had received all my files and gave me an appointment. As I write this, I’m on the train to New York City. If anything is a miracle, it’s when two doctors’ offices, two large cancer centers, and an insurance company work together and achieve this outcome in two days!

I’m sorry this post has been especially lengthy. However, as you can see, much has happened in a short time, and I want you to know the difference you’re making by continuing to lift me up in prayer.

Share the strength.

Walking on Water

After hitting several roadblocks attempting to get a second opinion on my recent diagnosis, my sister, Vanda — frustrated, sad, and tired — set out on a walk last week. She told me that as she strolled she was gradually inspired. This beautiful story, based on the Gospels and this website, is the result. I’d say she was inspired indeed:

 

“What happened when we let Jesus in the boat . . .

“On March 17, my sister Ann and I hopped into a small wooden boat to escape the bad news from a CT scan of her chest. Ann’s cancer had spread to both of her lungs and there were multiple little tumors. ‘Eighteen to 20 months,’ the doctor said. The waves carried us out further to sea than we had intended to go. Ann and I rowed hard and realized we were in serious trouble; the waves were getting higher and higher. No one could hear our cries for help from the middle of the sea. As the wind gusts and the waves beat down upon us, we felt helpless and hopeless. Then, we began to feel foolish. What were we thinking . . . taking off in such a small boat all by ourselves in this weather? Despite our efforts, we could no longer control the boat.

“Every time we survived a wave, another one came and knocked us down. Each time it was harder to get back up from the deck of the boat. There was no sign of the storms letting up any time soon. ‘Lord,’ we prayed – ‘just give us enough strength to withstand one more wave and, hopefully, eventually the waves will just go away.’ But the wind was still against us and neither of us could swim . . . .

“Jesus, watching from afar on the shore, finally said, ‘Enough is enough. I will walk out to Ann and Vanda and tell them to not be afraid, even though they should know better by now.’  So Jesus came walking across the water, yet we still found it hard to believe that He could work miracles. After all, why did He allow us to get trapped in this situation in the first place? But, we invited Jesus into the boat anyway. Suddenly, the wind and the waves stopped. I sobbed and sobbed with relief; Ann crouched low on the deck, tormented by fear and exhaustion. And then we remembered what our father and the Scriptures had taught us — Jesus always comes to us in the storms of life.

“And Ann asked Jesus to let her walk on the water, too. But as she did, she became afraid and started to sink, crying, ‘Lord save me.’ Jesus grabbed her hand and asked, ‘Why did you doubt me?’ Then almost as if by magic, the boat landed immediately at the place to where they were going. Jesus had not wasted any time answering our prayers and the prayers of family, friends, and strangers.

“In an instant we understood that Jesus had waited until the boat was as far from land as possible, when all our hope was gone, before approaching us. He was removing every human prop. Why did Jesus walk on the water? To show Ann and me that the very thing we feared — the raging, seething water — was merely a set of steps for Him to come to us and revive our trust. Jesus came to us as we crouched in the little boat of fear and paralysis in the middle of a vast stormy sea called ‘cancer.’

“And although Ann and I have a long way to go in our life walk with Jesus, we are growing in our faith day-by-day and keeping our eyes, ears, and hearts open to the angels he is sending our way. Amen.”

Angels have been sent, and He has indeed walked on water. I’ll tell you how in the next post. Thanks, Sis!

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Queen of De-Nial

Just call me Cleopatra. While I’m regaining my footing after receiving the recent news of my cancer returning, I’ve decided to hang out with one of my old friends – denial. I’ve always been pretty good at not focusing on negative things because I am, by nature, an optimist. However, I have wondered if sometimes my optimism wasn’t really denial in disguise. In a post last year, I pondered the point at which positive thinking turns into denial. I also wondered if denial is a bad thing if it keeps your attitude positive, or, in my current case, helps my positive attitude return.

Now that I’ve gotten past the awful chore of telling family, friends, and coworkers about my cancer recurrence, the shock I’ve been experiencing the past three weeks is starting to subside, and I’ve decided that denial sounds pretty good to me. Added to this is the fact that I haven’t really been myself since my father died; I have felt like a big piece of me is missing – like I lost my sparkle. That light got even dimmer when I got the news about the cancer. Hell, it pretty much went out. But two weekends ago when my sister was visiting, I found myself laughing a little more and crying a little less. It felt good.

The time between now and the start of chemo may very well be the best I ever feel, and I don’t want to spend that time dwelling on what’s to come. Physically, I feel great, so it’s becoming easier for me to just pretend that life is normal, and, quite frankly, I think that’s OK. There will be lots of time for reality checks in the coming months. My last post was based on the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and I’ll borrow from that classic film again. At one point, Clarence turns to George Bailey and says, “You see, George, you’ve had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a mistake it would be to throw it away?” Amen, Clarence!

Embracing denial doesn’t mean I plan to avoid talking about what’s happened or pursuing some steps that I need to take, such as looking into getting a second opinion. And I still get sad, often. My mind cannot automatically turn off thoughts of what is to come. However, I  don’t want this yucky situation to be the axis on which my life spins right now. I’m also aware that denial is not just an old friend, but also the first stage of grief, so perhaps going from shock to denial is just a natural progression.

In any case, I want to be able find my spark again; maybe if I get some fresh air, take a deep breath, and allow some oxygen in, it will ignite. As for the cancer, for now I’ll evoke another famous film character, Scarlett O’Hara: “I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

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I Have a Lot of Clarences

Since announcing the return of my cancer, I have felt a bit like George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” The outpouring of concern, support, and prayers has been overwhelming!

“It’s a Wonderful Life” opens with numerous voices praying to God on George’s behalf. George, you see, is in trouble. His uncle has misplaced an important bank deposit, an error that will surely lead to George’s family business, the Bailey Building and Loan, going bankrupt. The sinister Mr. Potter, who controls much of the town and who for years has wanted to close the Building and Loan, finds the money, keeps it, and seizes the opportunity to issue a warrant for bank fraud against George. While George ponders suicide, the voices lifting him up to the Heavens reach God’s ear, who, in response, sends Clarence, a guardian angel, to show him the difference he has made in others’ lives and all the reasons for which he still has to live. Ultimately, Mr. Potter’s devious attempt is foiled.

Cancer is my Mr. Potter – evil, conniving, controlling. The character was No. 6 on the American Film Institute’s list of the 50 Greatest Villains in the history of American cinema. A 2007 article in the Nashua Telegraph about the death of Lionel Barrymore, who portrayed Mr. Potter, described the character as “Scrooge, the Grinch and Simon Legree in one craggy, crabby package.” Yep, that’s my cancer.

And just like George Bailey’s friends prayed for him when he was being attacked by Mr. Potter, I know I have hundreds of voices praying for me right now. Although my faith was shaken when I heard my cancer was back, I do know that God hears prayers and I believe in the power of prayer. I’m hoping that when He hears so many voices, He will choose to work a miracle. I know He has already sent me many Clarences. Some I know and some I don’t. I’m not sure I’m worthy of the beautiful, warm comments I have gotten from so many people telling me what I have meant to them. I’m grateful and humbled if I’ve been able to make a difference in their lives. In fact, it’s one of the main things that has gotten me through the past couple weeks. It is comforting to know that, when facing a terminal illness, a life has been well spent. Hearing that is a blessing that not everybody gets to have. All too often, we wait until after people are gone to acknowledge the role they played in our lives.

I hope that I will ultimately have much more time than the doctors say because, as is the case with everyone, there’s still much I want to do. In the meantime, however, I appreciate the support, encouragement, strength, and love being sent my way and the prayers lifting me up. Thanks to each and every one of you!

“Remember, George: No man is a failure who has friends” – “Clarence”

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Hi, God. It’s Me, Ann.

Are you there? Hello? Hellooooo? Of course, I really do know He’s around — somewhere; however, my faith has been shaken to the core the past week. As a result, this post is especially difficult to write. Since I started this blog a year ago, I’ve shared many views on life as I journeyed through a nine-month battle with cancer. I have written a lot about faith, optimism, affirmative prayer, living for today and not worrying about the future, and counting one’s blessings. Just last month, I wrote about looking for the silver lining when life knocks you down – using God’s study guide of faith to pass life’s exams.  However, right now, this “glass half full” gal is seeing the glass half empty.

You see, last week I was told that my cancer has returned and spread to both lungs – an “incurable” condition, according to the doctor. Translation: I’m terminal. The doctor says the average life expectancy for someone in my condition is 18 months. Bummer. I imagine I know what you’re feeling right now as you read these words, especially if you know me. Stunned . . . shocked . . . sick. That’s how I felt. I didn’t expect that news either, and I deeply apologize to the many of you who are finding out about my condition this way. Telling people has been extremely difficult. After the recent losses of my father and brother, I feel like I’ve been kicked while I’m down. How much is one person supposed to take? I feel deflated and defeated.

I truly – deep, deep down truly – thought I had beaten cancer. I thought I was going to be a beacon, the shining success story that could inspire others who might face the type of rare, aggressive cancer I had – correction, have. I didn’t want that for egotistical reasons, but rather so that something good might come of a bad situation. I thought that was the purpose behind my first battle – that God was giving me the gift of words to start this blog and provide encouragement to others, people who were not just experiencing cancer, but also any difficult situation.

The first time I found out I had cancer, I thought, “Why not me? What makes me so special that something that horrible couldn’t happen?” This time, however, I am indulging in the classic “Why me?” question. I thought I had done everything right last time. I maintained my faith – in fact, it got stronger – and I shared it with others. I tried to face my challenge with poise and optimism. So I feel slightly abandoned by God right now. Yes, I know, saying that may be perceived as blasphemous by some. I rather feel like Pinto, Tom Hulce’s character in the classic movie “Animal House,” when his date for the toga party passes out in his bedroom and an angel appears on one shoulder and a devil on the other, resulting in a tug of war to decide what he should do next. My mini angel and devil certainly aren’t uttering the dialogue they had with Pinto, but they’re there nonetheless – arguing acceptance and anger, patience and indignation, faith and doubt.

I’ve always felt like I had a personal relationship with God. My prayers have often taken the form of a conversation. And just like you experience a range of emotions with a close friend, including frustration, so have I expressed, and am expressing, that emotion with Him as well. I’m not going to feel too bad about that, either, for even Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, asked God to let death pass Him by and later cried out on the Cross, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

I can’t begin to fathom why this is happening. As I have said in other posts, I don’t believe God causes bad things. I’m disappointed He didn’t step in to stop this from occurring, though. Once I adjust to this news, I will, hopefully, be like Job, who accepted numerous sorrows without losing faith. Right now, however, I’m more like David, when he entered the cave – afraid and lamenting.

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525,600 Minutes

One year ago today, I had an MRI that would forever change my life, and on this Veteran’s Day, I find myself being a veteran of sorts, certainly not to the extent of our military who sacrifice so much, but rather the survivor of a personal battle. I really don’t think too much about my cancer anymore; however, my thoughts have been preoccupied with it lately. The emotions of those first days have come hurtling back and I can feel them like it was yesterday.

I remember sitting in shock while my doctor gave me the MRI results, which included phrases such as “suspicious mass” and “soft tissue sarcoma.” I eventually was able to form two questions: Would I lose my leg, and would I die?  She looked at me and her silence spoke volumes; I knew the situation wasn’t good, so we just prayed. In the next two weeks, I moved like a zombie as I attended numerous doctor appointments, underwent medical test after test, and spent a lot of time on the New York State Thruway. The first few days and weeks of receiving a life-threatening diagnosis are filled with great turmoil and I learned what I believe are several important lessons for those who find themselves in a similar situation (so pardon the lengthy post):

You are your only advocate. I saved my life. Yes, of course, my wonderful medical team gets 99% of the credit; however, I was the one who got the ball rolling. When my primary physician felt the swelling in my leg was nothing to worry about and we could just monitor it for a month, I refused to wait and was insistent on getting an MRI right away. It still took 10 days to get it approved and scheduled, but, when it finally happened, that’s what revealed my tumor. I was also insistent, at the urging of my sister, on seeing the specialists at Roswell Park Cancer Institute sooner rather than later. All in all, I think my pushiness saved about seven weeks of time. As advanced as my cancer was, I strongly believe that time made a difference and saved my life.

Don’t make hasty decisions. When you hear you probably have cancer, all you want is to have that awful mass out of your body as soon as possible. This isn’t always the right move, however. Yes, time is of the essence, as I mentioned above; however, get the facts before making any quick decisions. When I was diagnosed, I was desperate to get a biopsy right away so I would know what I was dealing with. My primary physician offered to connect me with a general surgeon who could do one the next day, before my meeting with the specialists at Roswell. Because I had taken the time to gather some facts, I knew that the biopsy needed to be done by someone experienced in soft tissue sarcoma or I would risk having the cancer quickly spread through my body. As hard as it was to wait, I knew it was the right thing to do. In the subsequent months, I heard a lot of horror stories of people with my type of cancer who made hasty moves. Roswell’s new ad campaign, “Just One Day,” captures this perfectly.

Try not to jump to conclusions. I realize that this is easier said than done. When you’re told you might have cancer, the worst scenarios possible start filling every corner of your brain. A year later, I can happily say that none of them came to fruition: I didn’t lose my leg, I was able to continue working, I didn’t lose my home because I couldn’t pay bills, I was able to see my grandson turn 2 years old.

I have also learned some important lessons about life in the past year:

Treasure each day. That’s all any of us really have, cancer or not. As I talked about in an early post, if we are spending too much time regretting the past or worrying about the future, we are missing the beautiful “now” moments that are weaving the tapestry of today.

I’m not Superwoman. I had to learn acceptance and patience when I found there were some obstacles my body just wouldn’t let me overcome no matter how persistent and eager I was. Those are two characteristics with which I had to get acquainted and it was a difficult meeting.

You most likely underestimate the impact you have on the world. I will never forget the outpouring of love and support I received from people far and near when word of my diagnosis spread. Not a day went by that I didn’t receive a card in the mail, a supportive phone call, or a nice email. When my students put together a notebook of individual letters telling me how I had inspired them, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I was awestruck – I still am.  I have come face-to-face with the knowledge that what each of us does on a daily basis affects others more than we realize. That’s a powerful gift and one of which we should be mindful.

What God leads us to, God leads us through. I can’t take credit for that saying and, unfortunately, don’t remember where I read it. I certainly don’t consider getting cancer a blessing; however, I do believe the life lessons I learned in the past year have been a blessing. My cancer was not God’s fault. As long as I had to face it, however, I strongly believe that He set forth a plan for me and led me to certain stops along this journey, such as starting this blog, and gave me the strength to get through. I have come out on the other side a better person for it.

“These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold–though your faith is far more precious than mere gold” — 1 Peter 1:7

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Type A, Meet Roses

The last week, I’ve been struck by how beautiful it has been to drive home surrounded by the bright gold, burnt orange, and dark red colors of fall. It has made me pause to think that it’s been too long since I took the time to look around me and enjoy what I see. Case in point: It’s been nearly two months since I started writing this new post. At that time, I was sitting on my patio enjoying the still warm temperatures of summer and watching a sunset that seemed to go on forever. I wrote down the description for fear of forgetting the image: “The sky was, at first, full of light blue and pink swirls, like cotton candy you would buy at a carnival. Then it became brushed with coral and lavender before hitting the horizon and turning burnt orange and deep purple.” The topic of that post was going to be how my illness had made me “stop to smell the roses.”  Well, apparently not quite.

With my school semester in full swing, my Type A personality has taken over and I now realize that I will have to make a conscious effort to slow down and savor the things I learned to enjoy during my recovery. To help me with that, I’m writing this at the beach, watching the whitecaps dance along the water and the waves crashing upon the shore.

Being in a car – whether it’s driving through a tunnel of fall colors or parked at the pier – holds you captive in some ways. There is no television, Internet, or tasks staring at you to take you away from what you’re looking at and collecting your thoughts. It’s much like my recovery held my captive. I was limited in what I could do and where I could go; all I had was time — time I used for pondering the purpose of life and appreciating its beauty, and that was a true gift. The time I took for reflection taught me a lot – about me, about life, about my place in the world. It’s much harder to do that when your life returns to normal (or at least, in my case, the “new” normal). Reflection is just as important now as it was then, however, so in the midst of hectic daily routines, I realize it is important to pause and appreciate the blessings of life and be thankful for them. My cancer journey that began almost a year ago seems so far away now; it’s easy for me not to think about it. However, I don’t want to not think about it. I don’t want to forget the things I learned in the past year and I certainly don’t want to take them for granted. Hopefully, now that I’ve committed these thoughts to paper, I will commit them to practice.

(A fitting ending: As I was getting ready to leave the beach after writing this, I realized I had left my headlights on the entire time, draining my battery. Now I have to stay here for another 90 minutes waiting on AAA with nothing to do but appreciate my surroundings. God works in mysterious ways!)

The Forest

You may have heard the cliché, “Can’t see the forest for the trees” – a way to express that focusing on details (the trees) can keep you from seeing the bigger picture (the forest).  I’ve told many people that I got through my cancer journey by taking one step at a time.  If I had looked at everything I would have to go through – the radiation, the surgery, the chemo, the recovery – I would have been overwhelmed.  So I focused on the trees.

Now, it’s time to look at that forest.  No matter what kind of journey you are taking and where it has led you (or is leading you), I think it’s important to take some time to reflect on that journey and see how far you’ve come.  To look at my forest, I’m taking a different approach to this post and using pictures to tell the story.

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Click on the first photo to start the photo album; advance by clicking on arrow at far right of each photo.  

November 2013: Still in shock, I celebrated my father’s 101st birthday with my sister just three days after receiving my diagnosis. I would start radiation nine days later, driving more than a hundred miles for each treatment. There would be 25.

December 2013: The whole family was together at Christmas; I was halfway through my five weeks of radiation by this time.

January 2014: Now finished with radiation, I took a quick trip home to see my father in West Virginia. It would be the last time I’d be able to travel for a while.

February 2014: Two days before surgery, I celebrated the successful completion of a class project with students.

February 2014: My surgery lasted about six hours and almost one whole quadricep was removed with the tumor. I was able to sit in a chair on day three and enjoy flowers my students sent me.

February 2014: After a week in the hospital, I returned home with lots of help from family and friends, as well as a visiting nurse.

March 2014: Within a couple days, I could move from room to room with the help of a walker.

March 2014: Three weeks later, I was able to take a few steps on my own. I still had stiches and surgical drains, which were starting to drive me crazy!

March 2014: I had to undergo an outpatient procedure to have a MediPort put in through which chemotherapy would be administered. This was the most painful week I had on the journey. I kept telling myself, “This too shall pass.”

April 2014: I would go in the hospital on a Monday for chemo and be discharged the following Friday. The day after my first round, I went to the salon to get my head shaved. I couldn’t control cancer entering my body, but I could control my impending hair loss.

April 2014: A couple days later, I went to school. It quickly became apparent that I didn’t have the strength to continue in the classroom. My white blood cell count was too low and I had pneumonia, which postponed my next chemo treatment. I felt betrayed by my body.

May 2014: By Mother’s Day, I was halfway through chemo. My white blood cells were recovering, but the red blood cells were taking a hit. I would have to start blood transfusions.

June 2014: When I was feeling up to it, I tried to maintain a normal life. The week before my fourth chemo treatment I was able to go out for lunch, although I tired very easily.

June 2014: I was able to attend an awards ceremony, but chemo was taking its toll. The day before I had to get a platelet transfusion and the day after I had to get yet another blood transfusion. Chemo would be delayed again.

July 2014: With the required four chemo treatments completed, I had to decide whether to go for an optional fifth. I decided the risks were starting to outweigh the benefits. Three weeks after my last chemo treatment, I was able to get out a little more.

July 2014: A month after finishing chemo, I ventured out for my first long drive — back home to West Virginia.

July 2014: With my strength slowly coming back, I made up for lost time and traveled to see my grandson . . .

. . . . and daughter . . .

. . . and stepdaughter and her husband.

August 2014: Although more tests had to be run, I took myself on a Victory Tour to Cape Cod and Maine to celebrate the end of treatment.

September 2014: Three weeks ago today, I was told I was cancer-free, 282 days after the MRI that revealed the tumor. I CAN see the forest for the trees.

Optimism, Denial, or Faith?

Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer, people have commented on my “positive attitude.”  Actually, people told me this a lot even before the cancer.  It’s true that I (almost) always try to look at the bright side of things; I strive to find that silver lining to each dark cloud, so I approached cancer like I would anything else in life.  It has made me wonder, however, what positive attitude really is.  I believed my cancer was gone before the tests said so and I believe it won’t return – is that optimism, denial, or faith?

I admit to being a Pollyana.  If you’re not familiar with her, she is the star of a self-titled children’s book about a little girl who always found something good in every circumstance.  Through the years, the name has been given to those who are optimistic, and sometimes it’s used in a negative sense to describe someone who refuses to accept negative situations for what they are, which leads me to denial.  At what point does positive thinking turn into denial, and is denial a bad thing if it keeps your attitude positive?  Whew!  Quite a conundrum!  Then, of course, there is faith – believing in what cannot be seen, letting go and letting God.

I’m definitely am optimist.  I believe people are raised in environments that will determine whether they are an optimist or pessimist.  I was raised in a family that was told to “roll with the punches” and I choose to look at the world in a positive light.  I also believe optimism is something that can be learned if people are open to the possibility.  Recently on Facebook, I’ve seen a “7 Day Positivity Challenge” popping up on my friends’ timelines.  I think that’s wonderful!  I don’t like being around negative people because, quite frankly, they are depressing, which can rub off on those around them.  Just recently, someone told me I shouldn’t consider myself cancer-free because the cancer will always come back, even 20 years later, and will return with a vengeance.  How disconcerting!  I don’t want to hear that, even if there may be scientific evidence to support the claim.  This is a perfect example of cognitive dissonance – hearing something that disagrees with what you believe.  It can literally cause physical stress, and I certainly don’t need that.  Doubt can bring you down.

I do sometimes wonder if my optimism borders on denial.  More often than not during the last 10 months, I did not focus on having cancer, even when looking at a bald head or a big scar.   I’m not sure if that’s denial or simply choosing not to think about negative things.  I do know that I have a strong faith, which has helped me not to worry because I knew God had a plan even if I didn’t know what it was.  I have always trusted that the parachute would open.

So, are optimism, denial, and faith three separate things, or do they intertwine somehow?  They seem like they should be different.  The definitions I came up with are that denial is refusing to acknowledge a negative situation; positive thinking is acknowledging the situation, but focusing on the positive and hoping for the best; and, faith is acknowledging the situation and knowing the best will happen.  That said, I can see myself across the entire spectrum, so maybe they’re not distinctive after all.  Perhaps it doesn’t matter how I categorize it as long as I keep doing it.

“… there is something about everything that you can be glad about, if you keep hunting long enough to find it” — Eleanor H. Porter, “Pollyana”

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My Name is Ann, and I’m a Cancer Survivor

In this corner, stage III Soft Tissue Sarcoma, an advanced form of a rare and aggressive cancer found in the thigh.  In the opposite corner, the Westfield Wrangler, known for her tenacity, perseverance and positive attitude.

“Howard, this boxing match is a tough one.  Sarcoma has a strong track record of taking down its opponents.  We’ve already seen some dirty fighting in the ring.”

“I can’t disagree, Don.  Sarcoma has delivered quite a few blows, but the Westfield Wrangler keeps picking herself up.  The Wrangler may be inexperienced in fighting this type of opponent, but I think she’s getting the edge.  I’m just telling it like it is.”

“After nine rounds, the Wrangler seems to be gaining momentum, Howard.  Oh, look at that!  It seems she has Sarcoma on the ropes!”

“Down goes Sarcoma.  Down goes Sarcoma.  Down goes Sarcoma!  Ladies and gentleman, the Wrangler has won the bout!”

I, the Wrangler, am happy to announce that, yesterday, I earned the title of – cancer survivor.  A nine-month fight has come to an end.  A CT scan showed “no evidence of disease” – my treatment has been successful and I’ve been declared cancer-free.  I felt like Rocky when I got the news.  I started fist pumping, and happy tears welled up from somewhere deep inside – they’ve probably been in there since the battle began.

I may have been in the ring by myself, but I was never alone.  I owe so much to friends, family, colleagues and even strangers who have supported me in so many different ways.  I can’t express how much that support has meant to me.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart!  Now I start living life by the quarter, with doctor visits and bloodwork scheduled every three months.  Sarcoma is a “front-loaded” cancer so I will be monitored closely, especially for the next two years.  In addition to the quarterly doctor’s visits, I’ll have CT scans twice a year.  I don’t know what the future might hold – Sarcoma may very well want to get back into the ring for a rematch someday.  For now, however, I’m gonna fly – “flying high now, gonna fly, fly, fly!”

Turn, Turn, Turn

Transitions can be long or short, big or small, simple or complex. They can also be sudden or expected.  I’ve gone through a few transitions since my cancer diagnosis, all of which caught me off guard.

The first was when I finished my radiation treatments.  During my last treatment, tears started rolling down my cheeks and I couldn’t figure out why.  I had been so excited that I no longer had to travel the 100-mile daily trip to the hospital.  When I asked my doctor about it, she said it was completely normal.  Coming to the hospital each day for 25 days had become my routine and now it was ending.  I’m sure that fear of what was next played a big part, too.  I sailed through radiation – that was the “easy” part of my treatment plan.  Now I had to face a six-hour surgery and five weeks of recovery, not knowing what my leg would look like or how it would function afterwards.

The next transition was when I came home from surgery.  Another hurdle had been jumped, but the race wasn’t over.  Now that surgery was out of the way, I had to face the hardest part of my treatment – chemotherapy.  The latest transition came when I ended chemotherapy.  In my last post, I talked about having to make a decision about whether to pursue a fifth treatment; I decided not to.  Ending chemo was a difficult transition because it was completely against my nature not to fight as hard as I could; however, my head won this battle over my heart.  The benefits of continuing just didn’t outweigh the risks.  In addition to being a hard decision to accept, once again, fear of the unknown crept its way into my mind.  After eight months of treatments, all of a sudden I didn’t have to be to any kind of medical appointment for a couple weeks.  What would come next?

Fortunately, the uneasiness I felt from all of these transitions lasted only a few days.  Transitions, in their many shapes and sizes, may not be easy; however, your mental approach to them can play a role in how smoothly they go.  For example, my father recently decided to sell the contents of the home he had been in for nearly 65 years.  That’s a big transition.  Yet, when he sat down outside to watch the auction begin last week, he looked around at all the items that filled an entire driveway, backyard, and front lawn and simply said, “Look at all this junk!”  He has always thought positively about every situation and this thinking helped him make the transition and move forward.

I love road trips, so I’ve often thought of life as a road map.  It is not a direct route from beginning to end.  There are interstates on which you can travel full speed and back roads that require you to slow down in order to take the twists and turns.  Then there are the detours.  Just recently, I was traveling through Chicago and had to make two detours – not planned, but there all the same.  Those detours – those transitions – are all part of the path we’re on.  We don’t always understand why we hit them; perhaps it’s to protect us – in Chicago, for example, a bridge was out – or maybe there is construction ahead that will eventually make our life better.  That’s why it’s important to continue to move forward when we experience a transition.  God designed us that way.  Our feet face forward, not backward.  Our eyes are on our face, not on the back of our heads.  Isiah 43: 18-19 proclaims: “Forget the former things;   do not dwell on the past.  See, I am doing a new thing!  Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?  I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”  Indeed, transitions can bring wonderful new opportunities for us.  We’ll miss them if we’re looking at life in the rearview mirror as we’re driving down the road that is our life.

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to purpose under the heaven” — Ecclesiateses 3:17

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