Stage 4 Diagnosis

My doctor called me yesterday. We spoke very matter-of-factly about what was happening. This time I clearly heard every one of her words. Two times, however, my heart dropped, but I stayed with her – taking notes. She said the cancer was in my bloodstream because it had moved to my right side, which staged it at Stage 4. First heart drop. She told me they have to know exactly which kind of cancer it is before we know how to treat. Surgery wasn’t an option. Once the rest of the results come back from the biopsy, we will know the type of treatment. The second heart drop was when she said treatment would go on indefinitely. She had to add, “like forever.” As if I didn’t know what indefinitely meant. I assured her I understood. I was oddly comforted by the fact that she didn’t apologize.

I just freaking grew this hair.

I know there are so many ways treatment can go, and so many treatments to choose from. I have decided to stay with Dr. Pham. She is one of the best doctors in Texas Oncology. I could go to Houston, or even to another state to fight this thing. And I could still die. I’m going to stay right here. Surrounded by people who love me. Where I belong. Where God most certainly put me. If Dr. Pham suggests it, then I will go, but for now, I’m staying here. I do not want to be away from you. Dr. Pham will do absolutely everything in her power to get rid of this, or prolong my life, with as much comfort as possible. I trust her. I ask you to trust her, too.

I have pouted and stared at various walls and ceilings for three days. I knew, this morning, when I got up, I would write and then get on with my day.

I don’t profess to speak for anyone else’s cancer experience, just mine, which I happen to be a professional in.

Cancer should feel worse. You should just know- “Oh yeah, I have cancer. I’m definitely dying.” Cancer should look worse. It should turn blacker than frostbite. Smell worse than the most rancid corpse. Greener than the most rotten, gangrenous limb.

Instead, it feels like absolutely nothing. When the cancer was in my breast, my breast was swollen and red. That was more acceptable than this. This Stage 4 diagnosis has nothing to show for it. No blackness. No pain.

I was getting more tired and weak. I was struggling to do outside work like I used to. Perhaps, looking back, there’s a tell-tale sign. But not a Stage 4 sign, surely.

This weekend has been flooded with so many emotions.

I’ve stared at the Christmas tree, mad at it for existing, yet so comforted by its light, scared I won’t see another one.

I’ve seen random commercials and been mad at the people for being happy.

I looked at my books and thought, “Well, what’s the point?”

I have worried about my loved ones so very much.

I have wondered how I will ever watch a movie or TV show again. I haven’t been able to for three days.

It’s like you shouldn’t carry on with your life. Like there should be some new “cancerous activity” for you to take part in from now on. Dressed in sackcloth, marching circles around some stone monument meant for people who have cancer. Or sit here and “wait for the end.” I am confident that is not the answer. I know it’s time for me to get up, get going, and live.

It’s time to laugh. Cry. Dance. Play games. Take pictures.

This time around, it feels so much different. I feel absolutely surrounded. The love from you all is tangible.

Many of you know, I’m getting my master’s degree in mental health counseling. This week, I read about anxiety. So many times, for many people, anxiety is caused by a perceived threat – one that isn’t real. We can work with clients on this anxiety. Many times, it’s caused by cognitive distortions. I’ve had anxiety from these distortions before. I’ve worked hard on my mental health.

This anxiety that I have had since the biopsy has been a real threat. I haven’t been able to talk myself out of it.

The only thing, now, that can keep me calm, I am totally convinced, is your prayers. It is the only thing that can shroud my heart in peace. How do you need to pray? Of course, pray for some miracle if you want. Pray for complete healing. But more importantly, pray for peace for us all.

Please pray for all of us. We all need your help.

Pray for me. For peace in my heart and soul. For my patience. For courage and strength. For as much healing as is possible. And for my voice to help others. That means so much to me.

Pray for my parents.

Pray for my dad. My dad keeps learning this over and over, for the first time. He doesn’t know how to process it, and if I could keep it from him, I would. I don’t know the answer.

Pray for my mom. I can’t even think about what it is like to see your daughter – I can’t even finish that sentence. She is not only dealing with my cancer, but with my dad’s dementia. She needs so much support.

Pray for Lily. She’s living with me. She will see this all firsthand, again. The ugliest. The grossest. Just like before. She’s about to start a job pretty far away – next week. I am going to be relying on you all to help me some so she can go work. Check on her. She’s taking this very hard, and she’s part of our family.

Pray for not only my immediate family, but my extras.

Pray for Lacy. Pray for JJ. The Bartons. I am so grateful for them.

Pray for my YoYos. For Brandi. For John. For Jordan. For Sandy and Bonita. For Robin. For Janice. My list is endless. Forgive me if I didn't mention your name here, but know I love you so much, and I am concerned about you, too.

For you, all my dear ones on the sidelines. In the game. Suited up. Sweaty and dirty. Every single one of us needs prayers. So we can keep praying. Please get on your knees for me. For you. For every single one of us.

Thank you all, so very much, from the bottom of my heart, top of my heart, from my very soul.

One day, Mountains.

Love to all.