A Blanket Filled with Prayer

Almost a year ago, I received the sweetest package in the mail. A mother and daughter duo sent me a card explaining that they follow me on social media. "We feel like we know you." 

Honestly, I grew a bit teary-eyed reading their words because it was really touching, but also, just seeing the little girl's handwriting, you could tell she was young and had thought hard about what to write. "I'm sorry you're sick," she'd shared. "We pray for you and your family. And I love your cat, Borah." Then she relayed how she'd made me something, and it had taken a long time. 

So, completely filled with curiosity, I pulled something from the box and realized she'd crocheted a huge blanket!

Months passed and I used that blanket every time I needed to feel hope. I brought it to the cancer center to keep my legs warm during treatments. I even used it when we drove in the car during winter. 

"Why do you use that blanket so much?" Trey asked one day.

"Someone prayed for our family while crocheting it," I said. "They filled it with prayers and shipped it across the country."

But when summer came, everything grew warm and we placed the blanket into the back of the closet.

"Mom," Trey said, months later, "I think I should get a counselor. I'm having a tough time, worrying too much about the future and what might happen." A close friend's brother recently died, and I think his death left a big mark on everyone. He was only in his 20s and had so much life to live. I'll never understand why people die young. "It's sad watching Beau grieve over his brother," Trey said, taking a deep breath. "And it's hard knowing someday..." He met my eyes and then looked away. "Someone close to me... will pass away."

Although doctors keep saying cancer will probably kill me, I've recently entertained the hope that I might beat this. After all, I've lived two years longer than oncologists expected. So, I told Trey about my recent thoughts because hope can be the anchor that gets us through the storm.

"If you beat this, Mom, it would be amazing." But the light didn't meet his eyes, and late that night, Trey still hadn't gone to sleep.

"Trey?" I whispered after finding him digging around in the closet. "It's the middle of the night. You need to go to sleep, and Mike and I need to get some rest too." I'm still recovering from the pain pump surgery, and Mike works really early. 

"Sorry. I'll be quick."

The next day, I set up counseling for Trey, but they were booked out a couple of weeks. Despite that, every morning Trey seemed better—other than hiding something from me in his room.

"What was on your bed?" I asked.

"Oh... that was nothin'." I went to leave, but Trey stopped me. "Mom, do you think prayer works?" he finally asked. "I mean, do you really believe in it?"

"I hope it does," I said. "Sometimes I want to think that G-d hears us, and other times I hope He doesn't interfere. That means everything would happen randomly, and none of the bad things are personal."

He raised a brow.

"Maybe G-d winds a gigantic clock but doesn't mess with it or choose when it will stop running. He just sets it in motion. Maybe that's what life is." I paused. "Do you believe in prayer?"

"Well, lately I actually think I do." He sighed. "I'm feeling a lot better than I was." 

After he left for school, I decided to see what he'd shoved to the side of his bed... The fabric felt soft against my fingers, and it came as a big surprise when I pulled the pink and blue crocheted blanket from the side of his bed. I shook my head with wonder because the only thing Trey knew about the blanket is that someone from across the country filled it with prayer. Did the little girl who made it have any idea how much her actions would help us? Her prayers have become our anchor in the storm...

I'm still really glad we have counseling set up for Trey, but I'm also grateful for the kindness of others. Whether G-d interferes in our lives or not, life can be exceedingly hard, but today I find myself so humbled by a little girl and her mother—strangers whose prayers show the type of love that can buoy us through nearly anything.

Hope for a Cyborg

The pain pump has been life changing. It hasn't been very long since I got that surgery, and I'm amazed. It's odd to think it's been four years since doctors gave me two years to live. All of the things that have happened since feel like a lifetime: radiation, numerous infusions and cancer treatments, as well as several surgeries and hospitalizations, decreases in the tumors and then more growths... Yet, I'm still here twice as long as they predicted, just like a cockroach after the apocalypse.

My main oncologist recently said I'm probably alive because of my positivity, but I think it's just stubbornness and doing what the doctors say.

When the doctor first told me it was terminal, my initial thought went to my kids. I just want to see them grow up. Then, I thought about Mike, my incredible husband. We'd only been married for five years and had so many dreams. It's surreal to think that I've almost been sick for half of our marriage.

It IS strange how we try to control and rationalize. Maybe that's why people use the line about cancer and positivity: "If you're positive, it can help you beat cancer." It's probably an unpopular opinion, but I respectfully disagree. I've known plenty of positive people—fellow patients who saw the world in an even brighter light than I do—but they passed far sooner than anyone would've hoped. One in particular quit getting treatments and said it was her time. I miss her, but all of us knew we had to respect her choice. And her bravery.

 
It's hard explaining what this feels like to fight cancer, and when all of my kids are adults, if I'm still alive and facing this, it might be tougher to continue treatments. They are truly THAT horrendous, especially radiation! But... I guess we never know where life might go or what we're willing to endure for a glimpse at the next bend in the road. After all, right before being diagnosed with stage 4 melanoma, I thought I had life by the tail. I felt so excited about my career, future travels with the family, and what adventures awaited. Then, in an instant everything changed, and I wished I would've taken advantage of my previous health, instead of being a... workaholic.

Anyway, the pain pump... It's about the size of a cat dish, and the surgeon implanted it inside of my stomach. There's a catheter that reaches through my abdomen and into my spine (that catheter goes from my T7 to my L2/L3, where the cancer has eaten away at my vertebrae). The pump sends a steady drip of medicine to help with that pain, as well as the pain from the cancer in my hips and pelvis. But this is where it gets extra amazing. It has a remote! And if I'm in additional pain, I can actually send medicine to my spine. I'm an actual cyborg!—not even 42 yet, and they're turning me into a robotic woman. Wow!

Seriously though, I was scared. There are A LOT of stats out there, but I heard people say these electronic pumps have a 32% fail rate. Sure, that's nothin' compared to America's divorce rate, but it's still not good.

A friend encouraged me to try anyway. "What do you have to lose?" Luckily, everything went well. I don't think I realized how much pain I was in. I must've kind of acclimated to it because now that I have the pump, well, the pain has lessened so much that I feel ready to fight for another day. My doctor said I can have an occasional glass of wine, get into hot pools, maybe even go bowling! I just got my life back. If I can simply get over this fatigue... well, and cancer... I'll be set.

It shows that life can be incredibly scary, but if the possibility of hope outweighs the fear of failure, we should push onward. That and stubbornness might not be so bad after all, not when it can help you fight to see another day with your husband and kids—even as a cyborg.