Evidence of Acceptance

It feels like optimistic progress. No more Aquaphor. No more ABD pads taped to my skin covering my disfigured right chest. A deeper acceptance seems to be developing as I now look at and touch the edges left by the scalpel; look at and touch the reddish purple shiny skin graft that a 5" x 9" ABD pad just barely covers. "It's looking very good," Dr. Fairweather said at my 3-month follow-up appointment yesterday. It is. I know it is.

There is a sense within me of optimistic progress emotionally too. Perhaps my grief journey is transitioning to acceptance. It doesn't escape me that this is answered prayer; my prayers, and the prayers of others as they ask how they can pray for me. "The physical healing is good but emotionally, well, not so much. Please pray that I will be able to embrace and accept what is physically healing," I say each time.

At the Dana Farber there is a boutique catering to women in need of wigs, compression garments, and breast prostheses--it is called Friend's Place. Reading through the benefits of having a breast prosthesis is educational. Who would have thought a well-fitted breast prosthesis helps prevent muscle-skeletal issues. Without one, problems can develop like back, shoulder and neck discomfort from the body not being properly aligned. It will protect the surgical site and provide warmth. Once Dr. Agarwal writes a prescription, I can get an appointment to be fitted and then it takes 6-8 weeks to complete the process. It's good news to read that Medicare covers the cost of special bras and prostheses since it is considered medically necessary.

My immediate inclination is to send a message to Dr. Agarwal, ask for the prescription, and make an appointment. But he told me no prosthesis for six months. It's too early to start the process with Friend's Place. Luckily it's still early spring. Layering with a lightweight jacket helps hide the deflated look of my right chest. 

Surprisingly there is a website that comes up from searching for breast inserts. There are pictures of what they describe as "a lightweight alternative to your breast prosthesis." Perhaps this will be an option until Dr. Agarwal writes that prescription. For $12, it's a no brainer. Turns out the largest size does not match my left breast but a couple of ABD pads under it works well enough for the occasional trip to the store for sure. 

Every optimistic step is evidence of acceptance. My heart overflows with gratitude.

Two Steps Forward …

Two steps forward, then back one. Isn’t that the way it goes sometimes? Uncovering my surgical site to air felt so good, like progress. Then a few days ago, as Caroline greased my chest with Aquaphor, she pushed her glasses up and looked closely at the tender redness all around the incision. “I don’t like this, Mom. It doesn’t look right. There’s like little white spots.” She took a couple of photos and uploaded them to my Brigham & Women’s portal. We expected a call the following morning since it was sitting in my portal for them to review early in the day. 

As the day progressed, discomfort increased. Concern increased. The reply to my message said someone would call me that afternoon. When 4 o’clock rolled around and no call I was so disappointed. Another night to endure with no answer. Of course, by that point I was in the self-diagnosis mode. Suspicious of a yeast infection, Google confirmed yeast infections can happen after surgery. Now I was even more desperate to begin treating it. I sent another message that evening with an urgent tone, “we are very concerned, please call me.”

The following day, I waited and waited. Discomfort intensified. I couldn’t escape the smelly feet odor emanating from under my shirt. It seemed more potent as the day wore on. Worry was unavoidable. By 2 o’clock I called the office. “They are in clinic today but I’m sure you will get a call. I will let them know you are anxious to talk with them,” the compassionate voice on the other end said. At 4 o’clock I was becoming unhinged. “I can’t go another night without treating this,” I said to Caroline. I called the office again. Of course, the answering machine and the dreaded our-office-is-closed-if-this-is-an-emergency message played in my ear.

In my desperation, my only choice was to page the on-call plastic surgery resident. Surely someone could call in a prescription for an anti-fungal ointment! By the time the resident called, I couldn’t hold back tears nor disguise my frustration. As I spilled out my sob story, my phone beeped. I had another call coming from a 617 number. The resident said she would call back and make sure I had been helped. 

Finally after two full days of trying to get their attention, we had prescriptions for oral medication and ointment to treat the infection. That night, I was back to Caroline taping ABD pads to cover the surgical site once again. So much for two steps forward!

Oh, and the resident, true to her word, called me an hour later. I apologized for being so emotional and thanked her for caring enough to follow up with me.

First Touch

I couldn’t stop thinking about what sleeping was going to be like now that I am bandage-less and bra-less. As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for my nighttime routine, I glanced in the mirror. The slightly inflamed top corner of the surgical site jumped out at me, exposed from under my button-front pajama top. I audibly gasped at the unexpected sight. Tears flowed once again. Staring at me was the truth that this is my body now, for the rest of my life. There’s no running away from it.

I cried as I brushed my teeth, choking back sobs. I cried as I sloshed mouthwash and spit it out. I cried as I pulled the covers down, and as I crawled into bed. I cried out to Jesus, to God, “I need your help. I can’t do this on my own.”

Thoughts of how God’s heart was sorrowful at the sight of my predicament seemed like the release of a time-released capsule that gave me comfort. It occurred to me how hard it was to use words to pray through this, but my groans of despair reach the throne of grace. “The Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.” (Romans 8:26) The promises are true, I’m not alone. The Holy Spirit is with me making sure my pitiful attempts to cry out to God reach God’s ears and express exactly what I am at a loss for words.

This morning I woke up thinking about taking a shower. There was no bandaging to remove, just turn on the hot water and step in. It was true that the transplanted skin on my chest would need Aquaphor before getting dressed. It was also true that Caroline would not be up that early. I would have no choice but apply the Aquaphor myself.  

That’s exactly what I did. God gave me the courage to explore what is left from the surgeons’ radical procedure that saved my life. Courage to look. Courage to touch. Courage to massage Aquaphor onto the transplanted skin. Clearly answered prayer.

These warm days tease—spring weather is fast approaching. I long to go for walks. Build up my stamina and strength again. Yet it’s not time yet. The flesh wounds are still healing. All in good time. I’m making progress every day and so thankful.

58 Days Later

Today is a milestone to commemorate. After 58 days of chest ABD pad changes and irritated skin from paper tape, I now must uncover and expose the ugly surgical area to the air. Oh, it’s definitely a positive on this road to recovery yet somehow I liked that it was covered. It has been 5 or 6 hours now, no stretchy front closure bra under my sweatshirt. No itchy tape on my neck. Only one breast and the remnants of incisions and the discolored surface of skin that used to be on my right thigh. 

One would think it would feel good. However, now the sense of a plate of armor where my right breast used to be seems pronounced. I think the uncomfortableness of the paper tape pulling on my skin distracted me from what is actually left behind after this radical mastectomy. I don’t like it. I still don’t want to see it. It’s inevitable now. There’s no ignoring it. 

It will happen. I will eventually take care of it myself, cleanse the area, slather it with Aquaphor. No, I will. For now, Caroline is patient with me. She will continue to gently apply Aquaphor. She will continue to see it, touch it, take care of it. “When you’re ready, Mom,” she says.

Fifty-eight days after surgery, I can go a day without shedding tears, and I am pain-free and very thankful. Somehow an optimism is creeping into my thinking. Optimism that a day will come when I will be adjusted to this new body, that I will make peace with what is left in place of my right breast. 

Sunday Morning Musings

Friday night I went to bed with a plan. Since Caroline lightly covers my leg wound for sleeping, I planned to leave it on when I woke up Saturday morning, get dressed and for the first time in seven weeks, get in my car and go for a drive. My hopes of an early adventure were dashed when I discovered my son-in-law had parked his new truck in front of my garage and was still in bed. Even though I had to wait, by 9:30 I was backing out of my garage and on my way.

A sense of independence washed over me. Finally, here I was once again out of the house, on my own. First stop was the bank. There had been no cash in my wallet for over two months. Not that I needed any. It felt like one more confirmation I was on my way to getting my life back. The radio was off. I drove in silence with prayer on my lips. “Thank you God for all the little ways you have provided for this journey of suffering.”

In those moments driving through downtown Derry, an awareness of optimism emerged. I thought, “Maybe I can do this. One day, I will fully accept what the radical mastectomy left behind. I will be okay! I will resurface in my life physically healed and spiritually changed.”  

I have searched out and listened to sermons on suffering. My favorite by far is Tim Keller. He said the sufferings in life change us. Weakness turns to strength. Without weakness, there will never be strength. “We become a diamond under pressure,” he said. The Apostle Paul wrote that we glory “in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” (Romans 5:3-5)

The success of my Saturday morning adventure gave me confidence to return to church. Despite the growing discomfort of my leg, I basked in the love of my church family’s greetings and hugs. I sat in the worship service with an awareness that serving my creator will perhaps look different in what life I have left—in the months and years ahead. I silently prayed that I would have a keen awareness of God’s voice. I once heard someone say, “God speaks in the wilderness, there’s no distractions there.” 

One Glimpse

A little over two weeks has passed. I sit here imprisoned on my living room couch, right leg propped up on the ottoman finding relief from the sunburn-like pain that screams at every movement, even from flexing my thigh muscle. Moments ago I caved and downed an oxycodone with a zofran chaser. Just a few hour’s relief will hopefully be worth taking these drugs that I resist.

The thing is, my leg wound, the graft donor site, continues to be raw, red, and still has little spots where it bleeds when I cleanse with saline wound wash. I now keep it exposed 24/7 as much as possible which means I wear shorts all day and crank up the heat to 70 to make life just a little more comfortable. Dr. Fairweather told me the leg wound would be far more painful than the mastectomy site. He was right. Somehow I didn’t envision being almost 8 weeks post surgery and dealing with this raw skin. 

Caroline slathers it with Aquaphor after the evening chest dressing change and each morning I gently wash the area with saline solution-soaked gauze and more Aquaphor. On Sunday, the area seemed to me to  show signs of an infection brewing. I uploaded photos to my portal and got in touch with the plastic surgery intern on call. She was very responsive, looked at the photos, consulted with colleagues and reassured me everything looked normal, no concerns. Dr. Argarwal himself called me yesterday morning and reiterated that the photos look good, the wound looks normal for 7-1/2 weeks post surgery. So I trust the professionals and tend the wound, endure the discomfort.

In the evening of February 14th, after my last post, I gather the courage to take a shower and decide it is time to look in the mirror. The process of showering makes me cringe as water cascades over the empty, skin-grafted space and stings my thigh. My chest feels stiff, like a plate of armor has been installed where my breast used to be. I bend my head down and suds up the shampoo in my hair, my eyes closed, avoiding any chance I’ll see it in my peripheral vision. “I will look at it when I get out. Today is the day,” I resolve.

I wrap my hair in a towel and hold a bath towel around my shoulders. I stand in front of the mirror. All the logic swirls in my thoughts, “You have to see it, Donna. This is your reality. You can’t ignore what is, forever.” I resist, then slowly move the towel away. In a momentary glance I see a dark, purplish-red concave rectangle of flesh and I am horrified. I just wail at the sight, “Oh my God! It looks so horrible, Caroline!” She waits for me on the other side of the bathroom door. I cry like a baby, boohooing. I let it all out and realize this is the first time I truly feel the mournful truth of my predicament. I cry as Caroline puts new dressings on my chest and leg. I cry as I pull on my comfy pants and button my flannel shirt. 

In fact, I cry off and on for the rest of the day whenever that image flashes in my mind’s eye. Even now, as I write about this memory, I am in tears again. I’m not sure, but I think I may have had a couple of days in which I have not shed one tear, but only a couple. That horrifying glimpse was 17 days ago. I can’t bring myself to look at it again. Not yet.

Since that glimpse, I have had a follow-up visit with a nurse practitioner in Dr. Argarwal’s office. She exclaimed at how well it is healing. She debried the edges of the surgical wound. We no longer have to apply sheets of treated zero-form gauze on the chest graft, just liberally apply Aquaphor and cover it once a day. 

Caroline continues to amaze me with her ability to see and touch what I cannot bear to even glimpse. She is so gentle, caring, empathetic. Almost every time I recline on the couch and she proceeds to care for and change the dressing, I shed tears. “You’re doing so good, Mom. I know it’s hard. I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” she says. 

Still Avoiding the Mirror

The sun glimmers onto my bathroom vanity, deceptively giving a sense of warmth despite the windchill of eleven degrees outside the window. It seems a metaphor for my present condition. There is a sense of warmth that I can radiate to others even though deep in my soul a relentless storm swirls. Just as this windchill hurts exposed skin, the reality of my situation hurts my sense of well being.

Oh the physical pain is now only annoying discomfort after 4 weeks of recuperation, however, the emotional impact has me in tears nearly every day. I am tormented by the truth that I have to make peace with the empty space where my right breast used to be. The day is inevitable when I will have to finally stand in front of the mirror and allow my eyes to focus on what is left. This resistance is crippling. I am delaying independence. If I could remove the dressing myself (which I could certainly do but won’t because I don’t want to see it), I would have the freedom to take a shower on my own. 

When I contemplate what is behind this utter reluctance to stand in front of the mirror, this paralyzing fear, I know it is not rational. This is reality. Not seeing it doesn’t mean it’s not there. It is. I know it is. Somehow refusing to look at it postpones the inescapable truth that I will live the rest of my life with no right breast. 

Caroline says, “It looks really good, Mom. I think you’d be surprised that it’s not at all like you probably imagine.” I know she’s right. Yet, I can’t bring myself.

This week I am listening to a lot of Tim Keller sermons at the suggestion of my friend, Deb. As I’ve made my way through his series on Ephesians, I find encouragement. One titled “A Foretaste of the Future” is really a sermon about suffering. It is so inspiring, I listen again for a third time. My sense of gratitude for God’s loving provision overflows. Every step of the way, little things come my way that meet me where I am.

Reassurance wells up, “All will be well.”

Not Yet

I can’t look yet. It’s been 3 weeks and 2 days. I still have not seen it. Caroline has taken photographs, texted them to me, logged into my Brigham portal, uploaded them, and carefully deleted any trace of them from my phone and iPad. For now, I can’t bring myself to see it. 

For the first time in 3 weeks, I took a shower yesterday. After carefully removing my clothes and avoiding the mirror, trembling and in tears, I stepped under the warm, cascading water. Nothing hurt. Water flowed over my shoulders, down my flat right chest and it didn’t hurt. Even my raw, right thigh didn’t sting! 

There’s something therapeutic about water. Those H2O molecules interacting with skin somehow resets my sense of well being. A hot shower alleviates a morning headache. When it seems like life is too hard, a shower washes away the pessimism. 

But yesterday, the lovely warm water did not give me courage to look down at the place where my right breast used to be. For the majority of the 10-minutes, my eyes were closed. It’s inevitable. The time will come when I will have to see it. I will have to make peace, embrace a new normal. 

Caroline sees it every single day as she changes the dressing. “It’s looking really good, Mom.”

“Do you mind if Rob takes a look at it, Mom?” My son-in-law saw it and agreed with Caroline that it looks like it’s healing really well.

Dr. Argarwal and his nurse saw it three days ago. “It’s lookin really, really good!” they both said.

The visiting nurse saw it yesterday. “But, we were just at the doctor and he said it looks good,” I said. “I’m so sorry, but I do have to see it and document everything.” I reluctantly complied, reclined on the couch, unbuttoned my new Old Navy flannel shirt, and allowed her to see it. “Wow, that is healing up very nicely!” she said. I signed the discharge papers before she left.

I do wonder when the time will be right as I sit here in my cozy living room on this blustery February morning. Will it be weeks or months? Will I wait until it is completely healed and smooth, pink skin is what I’ll see? And how long until then? I just know I can’t look, not yet.

Worship Music

Reruns of Chopped, binge watching Seinfeld, Hulu documentaries — how many hours until one is desperate for something different? Turns out for me, about 14 days. Several times over the past 14 days I ignored a nudge to put my earbuds in my ears and listen to some worship music. I don’t know why. I love music. Yesterday afternoon, I opened my Amazon Music app and somehow spotted Michael W. Smith “best of” album. The first couple of songs were unfamiliar. I searched his albums and there were the two I was most familiar with, his two “Worship” albums, the red one and the green one. 

I sat back as the familiar melodies washed over me and transported me to 2000 and my in-laws’ camp on Lake Seymour in Morgan, Vermont. Buck and I had the use of the camp all that summer, the final summer it would be in our family after three generations had spent lazy, hot summer days together at the lake. 

It was a pivotal year in my life as a Christ follower. It’s a story for another time perhaps, but suffice it to say it had become clear the denomination I had given a quarter century of my life to had become toxic. In retrospect, I had experienced spiritual abuse. Oh, these people were very sincere, believing they were doing God’s work but were sincerely wrong. I was broken. Defeated. Afraid. Without a church family.

It was a serene summer evening at camp, the sun setting across the lake. Buck began playing a Michael W. Smith CD on the camp’s stereo. For context, we had not been exposed to Christian contemporary music considering that during those 2-1/2 decades, our church didn’t believe in instruments in worship - no piano, organ, just voices in 4-part harmony. 

A new friend who was well aware of my struggle gave us the CD. I’m forever grateful. Because as I reclined on the living room rug in front of the huge front window, the sun slowly setting, the room darkening, a beautiful melody began and then quietly, delicately, Michael W. Smith began, “This is the air I breathe … your holy presence living in me … this is my daily bread … your very word spoken to me … and I, I’m desperate for you.” The tears spilled and trickled from the outside corners of my eyes into my hair. My prayer was this song. A sense of peace enveloped me, reassurance of God’s presence, his love, and my desperation for God still so strong. 

Music does that doesn’t it? More images emerged as I continued listening to the album after all these years. I could hear my husband singing along. He could sing. He had been a song leader for years in our a cappella worship services, had a pitch pipe and everything. Buck loved this contemporary Christian music. We listened to them all, Chris Tomlin, Amy Grant, Matt Redman, Phil Wickman, and Philips, Craig & Dean. In later years, he especially enjoyed Lauren Daigle. 

I realized as I listened to this music, Buck’s favorites, that perhaps I had resisted because I knew on some level how much I would miss him again. And, wow, did I ever. He listened and sang along to these songs every day on his way to and from work. Every drive we went on, we sang them together. This music grew his faith. He wasn’t a daily bible reader. Oh, he loved a good study that required breaking out his Vine’s dictionary. He didn’t need and couldn’t sustain “daily devotional” practice. For too many years I secretly held that against him, judged him as not as devout and I was. Shame on me. He had found his path for growth in trusting God.

His faith surpassed mine in the end. I love him for it. It doesn’t escape me that my present circumstances are catalyst for this poignant moment. Feeling sad again, missing him, remembering long ago times in vivid ways, gifts given to me through this present trauma. God was present then and reminding me he is present now. He knew I needed to listen to some worship music.

Thirteen Days

It’s now been 13 days since the mutilation of my right chest. I say “chest” because it wasn’t just the breast, it was skin from margins that extended well around my side and underarm areas. I have no courage yet to see it. I don’t know when I will. But my beautiful, amazing, courageous daughter sees it every day. She uncovers it, exposes it in all its glory and changes the special dressings, thin gauze-like Vaseline-laden sheets. Then she loosely covers the whole area with soft white pads and tapes them in place. The plastic surgeon’s office provided two front Velcro-closure bras that she carefully closes and then we are good for another 24 hours.

Pain management has been challenging, mainly because opioids make me nauseous and I throw up. So I’ve been avoiding the oxycodone. Much to my surprise, the actual surgical site has not been as painful as the graft donor site on my leg. I’ve been waiting for that area to become painful and it happened yesterday. It seemed prudent to try to cut back on the amount of Tylenol and ibuprofen I’ve been taking every six hours for 13 days. So I cut the ibuprofen in half for my noon-time dose yesterday. 

A couple of hours later, the ache under my arm became concerning. It occurred to me that the pain could conceivably get worse over time, will ibuprofen and Tylenol really be enough. There’s a reason they prescribed oxycodone and zofran. It seemed prudent to give it another try. I ate a few Wheat Thins, had a glass of cold ginger ale at hand, swallowed the oxycodone and put the zofran under my tongue to dissolve. Except for feeling a little high for an hour or so, I didn’t get nauseous. Thank you God! Now I know.

Sleeping, inclined on my back, has not been easy. I’m a side sleeper. Impossible right now. Ativan is great for sleep! My PCP ordered 15 pills when I requested some to have for MRIs and anxious times pre-surgery. They are like gold. I use them very sparingly. I wish I had more.

There has been progress. I see it. The last few mornings I have made my own coffee. Poured my own bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats. The more I can do for myself, the less Caroline has to be “on call.” The easier I can make life for her through all of this, the better I feel. She is doing it all - cooking, cleaning, working, shuttling kids to various activities, and taking care of me. Talk about being in a “sandwich generation.” That’s her reality right now. It is temporary. I will heal. I will get my strength back. I will be able to cook again. Clean up the kitchen again. Get my own lunch. Some of these things sooner than others, but the days will go by. We will get back to normal.

In the meantime, I will be gentle with myself, allow my occasional pity parties, let the tears flow. My goodness, who wouldn’t find themselves over-wrought that this is what their life has come to?

Ibuprofen and Tylenol

Just 4 days ago I arrived at the Mass General/Brigham Hospital in Boston, Massachusetts at 7:30 in the morning. By 10 am, I was unconscious on a gurney, with a breathing tube and urinary catheter inserted into my body parts. A surgeon removed my right breast and a generous margin of skin and a plastic surgeon scraped a thin layer of skin from my right thigh and transplanted in to cover the open area where my breast used to be. I was told my breast and tissue was sent in its entirety to pathology. In a couple of weeks, I will know if all the cancer has been removed from my body.

Now I sit with the aftermath. I spent two agonizing nights in the hospital and was sent home late afternoon of the third day. I had been told I would be in the hospital for 5-6 days, so I was reluctant to agree to the plan to boot me out of there. It didn’t take long to warm up to the idea though. My daughter drove to Boston to collect me and I was home by 7:15 that evening.

There is a vacuum dressing covering where my breast was removed. It is attached to a machine 24/7 to allow the area to drain. My right thigh stings with every step, so I hobble like a 100-year old person all bent so as not to stretch out my leg. I haven’t showered of course. My hair is greasy. I feel gross. I can’t take the dilaudid they gave me for pain because it makes me nauseous. I think we have discovered the formula, 4 ibuprofen and 1-1/2 Tylenol every 6 hours. 

It occurs to me that my efforts to rediscover centering prayer, rereading those wonderful books—all the praying and journaling pre-surgery have simply faded away.  The physical bodily onslaught keeps me totally in the present, moment to moment of distraction. Spending 20 minutes of centering prayer doesn’t even occur to me. Getting from my bed, to the toilet, to the couch and catching my breath and waiting for my daughter to bring me a cup of coffee is all that I think about. 

I have discovered that God’s presence boils down to a matter of faith, of trust that God is in this with me. It will become something I will be able to see in hindsight when these awful days are behind me and I can once again draw near to God through contemplative practices.

The Presence of God

Prayer is not a request for God’s favors. True, it has been used to obtain the satisfaction of personal desires. … But genuine prayer is based on recognizing the Origin of all that exists and opening ourselves to it. … In prayer we acknowledge God as the supreme source from which flows all strength, all goodness, all existence, acknowledging that we have our being, life itself from this supreme Power. One can then communicate with this Source, worship it, and ultimately place one’s very center in it. ~Piero Ferrucci, Ineffable Grace (p. 254) as quoted in Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening by Cynthia Bourgeault (p. 3)

In these days counting down to the most challenging physical experience so far in my life, I have felt a desperate need to reconnect with what I’ve known to be true, believed to be true. I love the analogy that God’s presence is like the air we breathe; we are immersed in it yet we are not aware of the fact it is in us and around us all the time. The presence of God penetrates us, is all around us, is always embracing us. Oh how I long to live these present days awake to the presence of God!

So I have been re-reading books about contemplative prayer which is defined as “simply a wordless, trusting opening of self to the divine presence.” (Cynthia Bourgeault, Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening p. 5) The best practice to open oneself to divine presence is Centering Prayer. I was first introduced to this 20 years ago at a church women’s retreat that offered a workshop about Centering Prayer. Over the years, I have lived through seasons of regular practice. The last several years not so much. 

Thomas Keating’s book Open Mind, Open Heart, The Contemplative Dimension of the Gospel has been on my bookshelf for probably 15 years. The pages are dog eared from use. It called my name in my hour of desperation to reconnect with practice that I know will open my eyes again to God’s loving presence in my hour of need. Keating explains that our intention is what matters as we sit quietly for 20 minutes in silence, acknowledging the thoughts that never stop yet resisting the urge to focus on any one thought. 

Keating writes, “…the Spirit heals the wounds of our fragile human nature at a level beyond our psychological perception, just as a person who is anesthetized has no idea of how the operation is going until after it is over.” Now that picture resonates for me right now!

My prayer is that next Wednesday morning God will grant me the ability to let go of the fear I have about the surgery and waking up to my new reality. I have no power or control over what I am forced to go through except to let go, surrender to it and stay present to God’s Presence.

The Inner Room

It’s not always easy to share challenging times with others. I have to be honest, the challenge this devastating diagnosis presents isn’t just physical and emotional. It goes without saying, I think, that it is spiritual as well. 

In the months before my husband began his 5-year leukemia journey, I was already aware that I was “soul sick.” But it really kicked in that day when we heard the doctor say, “It’s leukemia.” And for the past decade, I have wrestled with God. I have wrestled with questions and doubts. A sense of God’s presence eluded me. 

And, of course, nothing can plunge one into spiritual darkness like becoming a widow. That day, June 16, 2020, a sense of emptiness and despair descended on me like I’ve never known. There really is such a thing as a “dark night of the soul” and I endured one for a good decade. A one-on-one bible study earlier this year with a friend turned out to be a catalyst for a breakthrough. It has taken a while, but I am emerging from that spiritual wasteland just in time to face this monster of a storm.

Oddly enough this storm hasn’t caused me to question or doubt. Right now I need God more than ever. I need to truly trust that God is with me in the midst of this storm. It didn’t feel right to cry out for help after all the years I  spent ambivalent about drawing near to God. I mean, I knew the value of prayer, bible reading, and making myself available for inner transformation through silence, solitude, fasting, lectio divina and other spiritual disciplines. I just wasn’t drawn to any of it; didn’t practice any of it.

More than anything now, I seek to truly trust God’s presence with me. To receive the peace that passes understanding that Philippians 4:7 talks about. To keep anxiety at bay. God’s mercy and provision astounds me. He has led me to uplifting Amazon Prime series and to books on my bookshelf that I forgot I even had.

According to Matthew 6:6, Jesus said, “But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.” Thomas Keating writes in Manifesting God that, 

“What happens in the inner room is a process of growing in the deep knowledge of God. God of course does not actually come close; rather God’s actual closeness at all times and in every place begins to penetrate our ordinary consciousness. To live in the presence of God on a continuous basis can become a kind of fourth dimension to our three-dimensional world, forming an invisible but real background to everything that we do or that happens in our lives.”

As the days count down to that moment I am stretched out on a gurney, waiting to be wheeled into a cold operating room, I pray that the image of that invisible, real fourth dimension will comfort me.

The Plastic Surgeon

 It’s New Year’s Eve day 2024, Caroline and I are breezing down I-93 South to Boston and listening to The Women by Kristen Hannah. We decided weeks ago that listening to an audiobook during our frequent drives to and from Boston would be fun. It is. Today’s appointment is with the plastic surgeon who will close up my right chest by grafting skin from one of my thighs after Dr. Fairweather does his portion of the lifesaving surgery I will endure on January 15, 2025.

As we get closer to Faulkner Hospital, it feels familiar. I’ve done this before and it’s not deja vu. As soon as we are parked and walk into the front entrance, I know for sure I’ve been here before. Buck had an appointment here for something related to his treatments 10 years ago. We easily find the office of Dr. Argarwal. The exam room is small, claustrophobic. There is one chair for Caroline and my only choice is to prop myself onto the end of the exam table and crinkling the paper liner in the process. 

I hate that I am here. Caroline is in the right corner of the little room with a view of my back. We are silent. Not much to say as we wait to meet this doctor who will do his best to put me back to some semblance of healing from the radical mastectomy. “Are you doing ok?” Caroline asks. “I’m ok,” I say without turning to face her. But I’m not okay. 

Sitting here in this moment makes the reality of my predicament real, more real than ever up to this point. In my usual struggle to truly tune in to what I’m feeling, I’m not sure at all. Is it fear of the suffering? Is it the thought of living the rest of my life without my right breast? How will I ever be able to look at that empty, scarred space in the mirror? How will I shower and feel hot water wash over that empty space, much less slather body wash over it? I swallow back tears. I tell myself to keep it together. I silently pray I will discover the secret to have what Thomas Keating describes as “permanent and continuous awareness of God’s presence” and my union with God be palpable. It feels so elusive, unattainable. 

After 7 or 8 minutes of waiting comes the knock on the door and Dr. Argarwal greets us. He reviews my history of breast cancer 15 years ago followed by radiation. He repeats his understanding of what Dr. Fairweather will do and what he will do. The wound on my leg from the grafting will take a while to heal. It will have to be covered for a few weeks in order to heal. Exposure to air is not good. Once he has stretched the skin that remains as much as possible he will overlay the layer of skin he takes from my thigh. The area will be covered and sealed and drainage tubes will be inserted. I will be in the hospital for 5 or 6 days and go home with the drainage tubes in tact. “Taking care of them is very straightforward,” he says. My eyes begin to tear up. I manage to keep it together but I know Dr. Argarwal has seen it. He lingers with us waiting for any questions we haven’t asked.

“When will I be able to get fitted for a prosthetic breast and bra?” I ask. He tells me not for at least six months. “We don’t want any pressure on that area until it is completely healed.” I forget to ask if that means I will have to go braless the whole time. I will know soon enough. It’s difficult to imagine no support for my heavy left breast. I try to imagine how I will get back to my life, go out in public, go to church, be with people and feel so lopsided and self conscious. How will I dress to disguise the flatness of my right chest?

“We cannot tell what loss and sorrow and trial are doing. Trust only. The Father comes near to take our hand and lead us on our way today. It shall be a good, a blessed new year!” ~From Streams in the Desert by Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, January 1 devotional.