Cancer – Page 17 – CHASE AWAY CANCER

Of Eyeballs And Living In The Moment

Sometimes it isn’t the actual doing of things that is hard, but it’s the thinking about doing things that lays us out on the floor and oddly teaches us dependence.

Chase has his first of two eye surgeries tomorrow (Friday), and we’re all a bit of a wreck over it. Which is ironic when you consider all he’s had done over the years. To have gone from major, major brain surgery with half his head lying open to fearing a simple outpatient surgery on one eyeball – that same procedure that very likely half the population over age 60 has done – it doesn’t make sense, does it? But fear never does make sense.

We are desperately out of practice with surgeries. Chase hasn’t had a single procedure for nearly two years, and so the thinking of tomorrow – even when we rehearse being strong and of good courage because God is with us – it’s been laying us out, or driving us up a wall.

Carrying this on his heart finally culminated yesterday morning in a knock-down, drag-out, complete and total refusal to get on the bus. He lay down on the sidewalk, and then he ran for the door and wouldn’t let go of the handle, and then he made it in the house and took a standoff posture in the living room, followed by clinging to the bannister while I tried to carry him down the stairs, and finally, a star-like posture with his arms and legs against either side of the doorway while I tried to get him outside again. This kid, he knows how to fight. You get the idea…

Right now, it sounds a little hilarious and completely like something out of a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon, but in that minute when he was screaming and pulling my hair, and the bus driver was honking and frowning at me, and I was pretty sure one of the drivers in the halted cars on either side of the street was about to call child services on the whole spectacle, it was awful, and I could feel myself sweating and freaking out right along with Chase.

He missed the bus and the morning got completely thrown off, but it ended up being the best thing that could have happened because I got him to one of his “safe zones” – the places he can escape to when he’s really worked up – and I wrapped him in his favorite, old blanket, and when he was finally still, we talked.

“Surgery.” He only spoke one word and his poor, broken eyes welled up with tears.

He recoiled as I began to speak comfort and logic and interrupted frantically, “But are they going to take my eyeballs out??”

Oh dear ones, I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again now because it took Chase in tears with secret, crazy fears and sitting under a surgery shadow again to make me realize afresh how desperately I needed to slow down and just be in the moment by moment grace of life. Sometimes, we all just need to sit down and reassure somebody that no matter how bad it all feels, our eyeballs are still going to be in our heads at the end of the day (or whatever your equivalent of this scenario might be).

Life is too important and too short to worry about what we look like to others or what happens to our perfectly planned days when the unexpected shows up at our door. (or ninja-refuses to step outside our door)

It’s time to keep our eyeballs in our heads, breathe deep, and love those around us in need. And if you think of it, please pray for Chase as he goes back into the OR tomorrow.

Moment by moment.

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What Has Been And What Comes Next

It’s been a year since two dear ladies sat with me on a conference call and invited me to submit a book proposal and I’ve had to go back and re-thank them both for the honor I now understand that they were bestowing on me.

One whole year of writing and re-writing, editing and re-editing. Of bloody-looking files filled with red words and notes so prolific and desperately needed that Chase would come up behind me and exclaim: “Hey Mom, it looks like Christmas on your computer! It’s all red and white!”

One year of forming new bonds with a new family who have taken up Chase’s story as their own. They have prayed for him and prayed for me, and have cheered us on and even helped us find beautiful resolution to a story with no ending.

One year that we’ve all wrestled to “get it right” – and wow, is it beautiful. I filled the pages and they turned it into art.

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I cannot even begin to describe what it was like to put myself back in the rooms, on the ambulances, waiting during surgeries – all of it – and then to dig even deeper into the hows and whys. It’s both broken and strengthened me in so many ways to type the words “moment by moment” all over again through current life challenges and not just past seasons. Oh, God is good as He pushes me to keep seeing Him in all the craziness even now.

So, out of this process that I’ve begun to think of as a fifth pregnancy; after a long labor and delivery, there is birthed a beautiful new baby, if you will…

Chase Away Cancer: A Powerful True Story Of Finding Light In A Dark Diagnosis

My heart is full. I poured everything I had into these pages and they’re FOR YOU.

Where can you find Chase Away Cancer? Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Tyndale Direct, CBD, Lifeway, and more…

When will Chase Away Cancer be in stores? May 1st, 2016

How can I help? I’m so glad you asked! My heart for this book is to be an encouragement to others and also to help raise awareness about what it can look like on the inside of a cancer diagnosis.

So here are a few practical, hands-on way you can join me:

You can take to social media on behalf of the book: Please re-post and re-tweet anything I’m sending out – and don’t forget #chaseawaycancer
You can share the website with friends and family: My new BFF Rachel over at Tyndale designed the most gorgeous piece for www.chaseawaycancer.com, so now, when you go to the main address, it’ll take you right to book information complete with links to major retailers and beautiful pictures, bios, endorsements, free downloads, etc. It’s a work of art – check it out! Um, also? Free downloads. Don’t miss that part.
You can pick a special day to order the book: I’ve learned that sold books are counted not as whole, but by the week, so if you’re trying to figure out the optimal day to order the book, make it May 1st! If we raise the roof over this and hundreds of people are going crazy about the book on that date (and the following week), just think how many retailers and outlets will need to start thinking more about the topics covered within this story as they look at their weekly sales.
You can write a review of the book: After a certain number of reviews (50), Amazon will start to promote the book and suggest it to others. Um, yes, please!

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Promotion is not easy for me (just ask my realtor husband who has almost lay down and died multiple times with the crazy go-live-in-a-cave-and-not-talk-to-people-anymore things I’ve said over the years), but I’m stepping out of my comfort zone for you:

Because I believe God is good and that’s why I wrote this book.
Because I believe this book is full of things we all face in one facet or another.
Because I believe that if we all start talking about this story, then we all start opening doors and discussions to cancer, the goodness of God in trials, fear, faith, and so many other things.
Because maybe you know someone who needs to read this book even more than you do and you’re the one to put it in their hands.

You guys, I have no idea where this story is going to go, but I can tell you that the very first advanced copy went out on an ambulance. True story. Can you imagine…?

Moment by moment.

Wait For It…

Yeah, so this warrior, survivor boy, he has some big news for you this week. Yes, you!

He’s been waiting with it for some time now and he was so fit to burst with the wonder of it that we had to do a photo rather than a video as he kept blurting it out at the top of his voice while he was dancing around with the sign.

So, wait for it…

_MbM_

Don’t forget, you can find Chase on Facebook!

You can also find me there too – in case your life needs more #LifeWithBoys anecdotes.

Waiting For The Ship

I can tell you many things, but there is one thing I absolutely cannot even begin to describe.

There is a road I’ve thought I might see from a distance just a few times, but it is one I’ve never yet been asked to walk. However, one of the dear “cancer mama sisters of my heart”, Christina – she was asked to walk this road as her darling Noah went from her arms into Jesus’ on September 27, 2015 at 5:46PM. Just over six months ago now, and if you were to ask her, she might be able to tell you the days and maybe even the hours that have passed too. For Noah was just three when he stopped suffering and his family started anew.

Throughout this time, I have so admired Christina’s strength and faith and so when she opened up her hurting heart just recently, I asked her permission to share her gorgeous, raw words with you. Take a minute and hold her up in prayer as you hold up her honest, heartbroken words, and please, oh, please, let them change you as we live and move among the grieving.

Time sucks.
I am struggling with the fact that as it passes I am moving farther from the time I last held my son. Last held his hand, kissed his cheek, felt him breathe, fed him, heard his voice, and the list goes on. I know with each day that passes I am technically getting closer to the time we are reunited. But being in this middle is hard.
It kind of feels like I am swimming away from an island where life wasn’t perfect but was good, towards a ship that I cannot see but know will be coming to rescue me. The island is moving farther away as I keep swimming forward, but I don’t know when I’ll reach the ship. And in the mean time I’m struggling just to keep my head above water. I know how to swim. And I know I’ll be rescued. But this period of time in the middle is so hard.
[stock photo credit: Pexels]

I’ve been given little rafts along the way, breaks in the pain, but eventually have to keep swimming. I’m trying to see the blessings God is providing. And there are many. Some days I see them more clearly. And other days it gets clouded. As life moves forward I have moments of feeling so alone. Around here it’s not commonplace to have a child die. We don’t see it happen on a regular basis in our neighborhoods, schools, groups of friends… I know it is in many other parts of the world. But our friends, family, coworkers, and classmates get to look forward to celebrating their kids/friends/siblings next birthday. Or look forward to summer with bike rides, pool passes, vacations. We do too, but with one member of our family missing. It’s raw, and devastatingly hard. Winter has been a way to hide from a lot of what I’m scared to face. The sandbox that’s not being played in, Noahs truck sitting in the garage, his bike that he never really got the chance to ride, other little brothers running around outside with their big sisters.

Tonight has been a lot of hard. Really since we came to the year of diagnosis it’s been hard. A lot of emotion and grief overflows. Life is moving forward and I feel like I’m ready for another raft to be thrown. In the beginning there are many, and now I feel like they’re farther apart. Mostly because I’m getting better at swimming. But when I tire it comes out of nowhere and I struggle.
Noah feels farther away, I don’t see a ship, and tonight I’m tired of trying to see the positive in everything. So I’m going to allow myself to feel, to be a little angry, and pray for some relief.

Moment by moment.

Beautifully Interwoven

“You’re welcome to play in here until the nurse comes to get you.” The woman from the front desk wore a big smile and her eyes were understanding as we stood overwhelmed on that first day.

Radiation. The decisions had been irrevocably made. Chase needed further intervention to survive, and so we stood in this place and prayed against all odds and all side effects that it would work and work well. Oh, but my heart still hurt. Because some decisions still hurt even when you know they’re right just because they’re so crazy big.

It’s a good thing God knows all the things that I do not.

The play room was a small rectangular space with a fancy plastic kitchen set on one wall, a crafting center and school area against another, several shelves filled with toys, books, and games, and on the last wall was an entertainment center with a TV and several gaming systems – all of which Chase wanted to play and none of which he knew how.

But my interest was immediately drawn higher to the top of the center, where several poster boards and papers were propped. They were mostly thank you cards covered in children’s handwriting and colorful pictures, each one expressing heart-wrenching messages of thanks for life-saving treatments. But there was one piece in particular that held my attention.

It was a large, bright poster display with row after row of pictures. In each one was a beautiful little boy with dark eyes and a magnetic smile. In most of the pictures, he was accompanied by an equally beautiful woman whose perfect smile and weary eyes spoke volumes of cancer motherhood. I knew that look. In other pictures, there were people who appeared to be family members and sometimes even medical staff. The one constant other than the small boy in the center of each, was what they were doing. For, in every single picture, they held up hands and fingers (however many it took on the given day) in a gesture of marking time: day 1, day 10, day 22, etc… On that one bright board, they had wonderfully documented and counted each day of his treatment in the center.

And then as my white and weary Chase busied himself with trucks on the plush carpet at my feet, I studied the progression of the days and treatments – from the beginning with hopeful smiles and lots of hair to the end with joy, weariness, and what looked like lots of burns and bald.

And with the pictures was one strong thought that crossed my mind: “If this is as bad as it gets – we can do it too.”

So I held the image of the beautiful boy and his mama in my heart and every day as we went back for another treatment, and Chase grew increasingly weak, I’d quietly look to the corresponding day on the poster board and then look at Chase and remind myself that we could keep going because they’d survived too.

I now know that the boy’s name is Isaac and his life changed with a headache when Chase was only a one-year-old playing in the backyard. Isaac would finish his road through radiation a little over a year before Chase ever started. And as Chase’s 2015 ambassador year came to a close, we learned that Isaac would number among the new five who stood for 2016.

The label on Chase’s chart reads Atypical Teratoid Rhabdoid Tumor, and Isaac’s reads Medulloblastoma, and they have yet to meet face-to-face, but most days, I just marvel at how their lives have intertwined and mirrored and how Isaac’s story has encouraged us so much.

And isn’t this why we share our stories – even the hard ones? So that someone, somewhere, can remind their own heart “If they did this, then so can I.” As we share our experiences with each other and seek to encourage each other, we pass a baton. I have run and now it’s your turn. I cannot run with you, but I will stand and cheer you on because I know the course you’re taking.

Yes! This. I know I say it all the time, but I don’t think we can ever hear it enough: There is beauty and wonder in our broken, interwoven lives and even cancer can be used for far greater, far better purposes as we run.

Moment by moment.

April and Isaac in the play room - Day #23 [photo credit: April Adamo Schippers] — April and Isaac in the play room – Day #23
[photo credit: April Adamo Schippers]

Tomorrow, Brave Isaac will shave his head for kids with cancer. For more on this great event, click here.

Isaac and his mom, April have taken their own experience and turned it into a great gift for others! Today, you can visit Camp Out From Cancer – their organization that provides care packages to kids with cancer (Including a tent! Our family was thrilled!)

And as always, for more on Isaac, the other 2016 ambassadors and the amazing work done by St. Baldrick’s, click here.