Balancing light and dark

"Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness." - Desmond Tutu

White Sands National Monument

I started writing a blog post last week while flying to meetings in DC and Atlanta. Be it divine intervention or simple user error, my drafted post twice disappeared from my new iPad. I was halted from complaining about my coughing seat mate (Cover your mouth, lady. Some of us have compromised immune systems!), or - more likely - writing myself into a gloomy place.

You see, I was looking out at the billowy white clouds through the window, thinking about how beautiful the brilliant blue sky was against the piles of puff. The observation made me think about heaven and what that might be like, which in turn led me to picturing my friend Miranda hiking those marshmallow mountains.

Then, in spite of the lovely scene I was viewing, I felt a wave of sadness. It's been nearly four years since we lost Ran. And, now I fear for my own life's end.

It's not that January was an altogether bad month. The year 2018 isn't off to a thoroughly detestable start. But, it's trying... and, I am finding it difficult to strike a balance between the good and bad experiences I've had.

My best friend Sacha reminded me that I don't have to ruminate on the tough cancer stuff in this post; you readers will understand if I seek to fix my eyes on the positive elements of the month. We kicked off the new year with fabulous friends and spent a long weekend mid-month trekking to New Mexico to see wildlife and national parks/monuments. Even on this chemo pill, I felt well enough to attend a very cool convening of higher education stakeholders in DC last week and spend a few cathartic hours with several close friends. From there, I was able to join the CAS governing board for a productive retreat in Georgia for several days.

"Chandeliers" of stalactites in Carlsbad Caverns

The darkest part of the month was when, on our tour through Carlsbad Caverns' enchanting underground chambers, our guide turned off all the lights. Humans don't get to experience that pure, complete blackness in life on the surface. We literally could not see our hands in front of our faces (yes, they make you try it!), and yet I was overcome by a serene peace in that lightless void.

Such a contrast with the anxiety I experienced this January... my mind flashes to the moment I felt a new lump in my left breast at the beginning of the month. We rushed to see a nurse practitioner and were referred to get an ultrasound, a mammogram, and finally a biopsy of the small bump I detected. Although I am thankful for how well cared for I was by the nurses, technicians, and doctors, it was a harrowing week. Another cancer scare, another little scar. And, all thanks be to God, another miraculous result. The benign lump is just fat necrosis where my original lump was removed and the area was blasted by radiation.

It was in celebration of that relieving news that Sean and I took off on our somewhat spontaneous road trip. I was able to spend quality time exploring our corner of the world with the love of my life. We walked among white gypsum sand dunes, gazed upon mountains that were actually an ancient fossil reef pushed up from below millions of years ago, and traipsed through an incredible wonderland beneath the surface. But, of all those experiences, I was most awestruck by the convergence of snow geese and sandhill cranes at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge. As the sun peeked over the horizon, thousands of birds flew up and circled overhead before settling back down in the water. To me, the sight was otherworldly (and the video here doesn't capture that full effect - I was busy being in the moment at the peak of their flight).

Yet, even with my brushes with heaven and peace and miracles, January wouldn't end without a last gasp of horror. I suddenly started experiencing a sharp pain in my ribs below my right breast the morning after I landed in DC. For the past week, I've had this agonizing ache which is made worse by coughing, sneezing, and breathing deeply. On Monday, we told our oncologist about this, and she referred us to the imaging center to get an x-ray. I had hoped to find I had a fractured rib, but the results are more amorphous (and possibly ominous) than that. It turns out there's a tiny amount of fluid outside my right lung, called a pleural effusion. The new fear is that this could be an early sign that there’s cancer in my lungs or liver which we can’t yet see or detect in blood work. Or, hopefully, it's fluid from the recent cold I had. Paired with the fact that my CA-125 tumor marker is still skyrocketing with every blood test, this news has my mind once again racing to the worst case scenario - metastasis. We'll have to wait and see, which is agonizing. I have a PET scan slated for February 12.

Between now and that next test, I turn 40. It's a milestone I'm proud of - I've experienced and accomplished a lot in those years. Most importantly, though, I've shared them with incredible people. In my head, I keep hearing the old American Cancer Society ad about a world with less cancer being a world with more birthdays... and, I'm praying for more of my own. More birthdays, more adventures, more people to love, more praise to give, more time to grow and learn and be and do - that's my wish this year.

Here's to a February with fewer fears and more hope.

"You are the source of all life, and because of your light we see the light." - Psalm 36:9