Happy Birthday Heather

Facebook reminded me that today is Heather's birthday. I am the self-proclaimed Queen of Birthdays. I love them. I love celebrating them, I love finding the perfect card, I love decorating people's offices, and I love baking. I rarely, if ever, forget a friend's birthday. Except Heather. I don't know why, but I've always had a mental block when it came to her. Last year I woke up in a panic that morning because I'd completely forgotten. This time it snuck up on me too. I kind of wish I'd not logged onto Facebook at all today... now I miss her all the more. Her husband is keeping her account active- which I think is good. But every once in awhile he'll change her profile picture, or add something else. It kind of breaks my heart everytime I see her name when I log in. It's like in that fleeting moment, I've forgotten that she's died.

I didn't realize her death would hit me this hard. I find myself still picking up the phone to send her a text message. I want to call her and tell her to pray about the whole job search thing. I miss going through it without her- Heather was overbearing sometimes, but she definitely was the one person you could count on to keep track of you. After I was laid off, she was one of the few people who made sure I wasn't forgotten. Which is kind of why I'm kicking myself that I forgot her birthday, yet again.

So when I pick Rachel up from school today, we are heading straight to Starbucks. Heather loved coffee as much as I do. We'd argue over whose turn it was to make the next pot of flavored coffee. When I smell it, I think of her. So I am going to get the biggest coffee they have, load it up with flavor shots, and toast my beloved friend. I only wish she was here to share it.

Happy Birthday Heather- I miss you.

A month of Thanks ~ reflecting back

Even though I didn't quite make my goal of posting something every day, I still wanted to come up with something inspiring to close this month. Like how focusing on being thankful has dramatically improved my outlook on life. Or how I feel like I'm looking into a mirror and seeing the reflection of someone with a new perspective. But it hasn't turned out quite like that.

This month has been marked by alot of loss. Heather. My grandfather. My other grandparents' house. Added onto the other losses- of Emily, my grandmother, my job, and moving to a new state, I was feeling pretty overwhelmed. Everything seemed to fall apart so quickly. It quite honestly sent me into a tailspin for a few days. I felt like everything I knew and held dear was falling apart, and the mirror I was looking into suddenly shattered into a thousand shards of glass. I was entirely too busy dwelling on the things that I'd lost, I really didn't want to focus on the things that remained. But yet, one thing I did get out of this little blog challenge is a keener awareness that there is in fact always something to be thankful for. Sometimes it's not much. Sometimes it's everything. Sometimes it's all in the way that you look at it. I used to roll my eyes when people talked about having an "attitude of gratitude", but there's something to be said for that. Some mornings I stared at a blank computer screen, certain that there was not one single thing I had to be thankful for. With that kind of mindset, of course you'll never come up with something. But when I looked beyond my momentary bout of "poor me"... I found I had quite a few things to be thankful for. Sometimes it was as big as being thankful for the family and friends in my life. Sometimes it was a simple "I love you" note left for me on the counter. Like I said, sometimes it wasn't much- but sometimes it was everything.

What I've struggled with most is trying to find the thankful in Heather's death. She is still constantly on my mind. Deep down I knew that she was going to die. I think I knew from the moment I heard "liver cancer". But I certainly wasn't prepared for her to go so quickly. But then again, are you ever really prepared to say goodbye? I miss her terribly. I find myself pulling out my phone to send her a text message. I'm so disappointed that she never got the chance to meet Lauren. We'd always talked about taking a trip here together, but it never worked out. I have trouble comprehending that she's really gone. In some ways it's just as hard as Emily's death. But in other ways it's a little easier to process simply because I know that even though her death has left a hole in my heart, I know that hole eventually starts to heal. And that knowledge allows me to not get as bogged down in the sorrow, and to be thankful for the memories I have of her. To be thankful for her, and for her life.

I hope I can carry some of the lessons of this month with me in the days and months to come. That I can find a way to look for the good in the midst of the bad. Like when I get depressed about not finding a job as quickly as I'd hoped. When I'm feeling scared and lonely and worried that I won't fit in. When I find myself missing Emily. Missing Heather. Missing the house that embodies so many childhood memories. When I feel like I have nothing to be thankful for at all, that's when I need to hang onto the one thing that I know will never fail- the promise that when everything seems to be falling apart, He's always going to be there to gather up the pieces. And to turn that shattered mirror into a glass mosaic. Sometimes the things that are most beautiful, come about as a result of being broken.

So here's to finding thanks in the reflections of the broken glass in life. And the beauty that comes in the mending.

A month of Thanks ~ Heather

Today I'm thankful that I made the trip for Heather's service last night.

I really was waffling about whether I wanted to make the drive. Part of me was saying it was kind of dumb to drive all that distance for a funeral. But she would have done it for me. And I couldn't bear not to come.

I seem to have followed the remnants of hurricane Ida all the way from Columbia. It poured the entire drive- until I hit Martinsburg, WV. It stopped raining for the last 30 minutes of my drive. But in some ways, I'm thankful for the crappy weather. Even though it kept me from appreciating the fall beauty of my beloved mountains, the rain made me focus on driving. Sometimes on long drives I tend to let my mind wander. 8 hours alone gives you ALOT of time to think. But yesterday I was too busy making sure that I didn't get into an accident, I didn't have much time to think about Heather, and about how desperately sad I am.

Her service was beautiful. It was definitely unlike any memorial service I've ever attended.
As we walked in, they had a collage of pictures set up. And my favorite one of the two of us was on there. It caught me off guard, and then the tears started. The church was packed. I knew she had touched alot of lives, but it still astounded me how many people were there. At one point, more chairs had to be set up. It reminded me of Emily's funeral when the organist had to keep playing beyond the starting time because people were still filing in.

Her service was what I think I would want mine to be. There were alot of tears... but mostly laughter. It was truly more of a celebration than a "goodbye". It was a tribute to her faith, and to her indomitable spirit throughout the last seven months of her battle with cancer. I still cried through the whole thing. The pictures taken of her the week before she died were the hardest to see. She had lost so much weight, she was mostly unrecognizable. Except for her eyes. You could see even in the pictures that her eyes hadn't lost her laughter, her sweet spirit, and that fire and passion that made Heather... well, Heather.



She fought a hard battle. It broke my heart when her husband described how much pain she was in towards the end. I'm glad that she's pain free now. After hearing that, I wouldn't have wished her here one day longer to suffer so. But I am still so heartbroken that she's gone. After the service, I went to hug Gary, her husband. He said to me, "I'm so glad you came. She thought the world of you."

There went the tears again. I've struggled most with feeling like I didn't do enough. That I didn't go to see her when perhaps I should have. That I didn't say enough, that I didn't try hard enough. That perhaps if the situation was reversed, she would have done a better job of being a friend. I was afraid that she didn't know how much I love her, because I have a tendancy to not say it often enough to those I care about most.

That simple sentence broke my heart and healed it at the same time. I think she knew. I think she knew that I wasn't her. And she never needed me to be "her". She loved me as I am, shy and reserved and reticent to share sometimes. Heather was the kind of friend that accepted all of you. If nothing else, hearing those words "she thought the world of you", took away some of that guilt I've been feeling.

I'll think of her when I see or smell a flavored coffee. We always raced to see who could make the first pot of "the good stuff" at work. I'll think of her when I taste chocolate. Especially M&M's. I'll miss being called "chickadee", her pet name for everyone. I'll miss her laugh. I'll miss her hugs. I'll miss her wisdom. Heather was one of those people that wouldn't give you the answer you "wanted" to hear. She cut to the chase, and told you what she thought. And most of the time, she was right. Even if I didn't always want to hear it right away. She could read me like a book. "What's wrong?" she'd ask. If I'd say "nothing", she'd ask again. If I still insisted nothing was wrong, she'd sigh and say... "you always chew on your thumbnail when something's bothering you. Now what's wrong?" There aren't many people that can "bully" things out of me when I don't want to talk. Heather always could.

My beautiful friend.... I'm trying to be thankful for your life. It blew me away just how many lives you touched. And I hope you know that your prayer was answered. That through your fight with this horrid disease, you still shone as a light to so many of us. Every person there was a testament to that. You've touched us all, and your memory will be with us forever. When Emily died, I clung to the phrase that "Love Never Dies". I say that now for you too. Part of me is still so angry that you're gone. I'm selfishly sad for myself, because I miss you. Because it's not fair, because 44 is still so young, because you had to suffer so much. But it's all part of the process, right? I'll carry a piece of you with me always.

I'm heading back to Columbia tomorrow, with a heart that's both heavier and lighter at the same time. Heavy because of the finality of goodbye. Yet lighter because in some way I feel like I owe it to Heather's memory to do something with my life. To be the kind of friend Heather was. To love more freely, and to show that more often. To see beyond my own little circle, and to be a light to those I come in contact with every day. Heather taught me that. And more than anything, I want to honor that lesson.

And Heather--- I think the world of you too.

A month of Thanks ~ friends that care

Since Saturday, I've had countless calls, text messages, e-mails, and facebook hits from friends. Friends calling to tell me what happened, friends making sure I'd heard the details, and friends expressing their sympathy and love on facebook.

Today I am thankful for each and every one of those people.

Heather's memorial service is Wednesday night. I'm going to get up early that morning and drive back. I hate the thought of that drive... but I feel like I owe it to her memory to go. To honor her, and to say that final goodbye. And I think it will be good to be with those friends that knew her and love her too. Lauren has been such a blessing this weekend through it all.... but it's slightly different because she'd never met Heather.

I'm not in a place yet where I can be thankful for Heather's life, and for all that she was to so many people, and for the impact that I know she's had through her life, and even her death. I know that will come eventually, but for night now- I'm just simply so sad that she's gone.

A month of Thanks ~ sticking to it

*sigh*

I thought very much about skipping today. I figured that I "deserved" a pass... a freebie... a "just lost a dear friend so it's okay not to be thankful for anything so I get out of blogging" free card.

But I never did like to take the easy way out.

Today I am thankful for putting one foot in front of the other. For seeing the beauty in a fall day, even through the tears, for the song that comes on the radio that puts words to the heartache, and for the wordless understanding that comes from a simple grasp of the hand.

Today I am thankful for the beauty in remembering that Love truly never dies.

Heather

I got the phone call today. Well, two phone calls and a text message. They came about two hours ago.

Heather died this morning.

I knew as soon as I saw the name on the caller id on my cell phone that she was gone. I stared at it, paralyzed, not answering. As if not answering would somehow make the message on the voicemail not true.

As I listened... I think I felt my heart break.

And then I cried into Lauren's lap for an hour. The nasty, heaving, sobbing, "ugly" cry. The kind of cry that I haven't done since the day Emily died. And God bless her, Laurie didn't say a word. Just sat with me, held me, and let me cry.

Oh how I wanted to believe that He was going to heal her! How I so desperately wanted my cynical outlook to be proven wrong! It's not fair. I want to wail at the sky and curl up in a ball and close my eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream.

She can't be gone. Not Heather. Not my friend.

I keep thinking of the last time I saw her. The last time I heard her laugh. The last time I hugged her.

I never cry. And now I can't stop. And I don't know if I'm crying for her, or for myself. Maybe both.

I think her memorial service is Wednesday. I can't decide if I want to make the drive and go. Part of me feels that I owe it to her memory. Part of me wonders if it really matters.

I guess I'll make that decision when I'm thinking a little clearer.

Oh Heather..... I miss you already.

Do you ever get used to saying goodbye?

I hate that word. Goodbye.

Someone once told me that the word goodbye came about from the phrase "God Bless Ye". Whatever. It's a horrid word. And I try to avoid saying it.

My friend Heather is not doing well. As in, it's getting close to the end. Her second opinion ended up being the same as her first. Aside from the research drugs, there was nothing that they could do. Then her doctor's at Johns Hopkins said she wasn't a candidate for the drugs because her tumor was too large, too advanced.

My brain gets stuck on that point. That's it? There's nothing more that they can do? I don't understand how with all the research, all the experiments, all the money that is poured into cancer research, and there's nothing they can do.

Sometimes I wonder if they're really trying to find a cure at all.

Heather's in hospice, on a 24/7 morphine drip, and isn't accepting visitors at this point. I was seriously contemplating driving back to PA to see her this week. And a very selfish part of me is glad that decision was made for me. The last time I saw Heather was when we met for breakfast. She was still eating, she was still laughing, she was still alive. I don't know if I could stand to see her lying in a hospital bed, dying. Cowardly of me, yes? I'd like to believe that if she wanted me there, I'd move heaven and earth to make it happen. But I have to be honest and admit that I'm selfishly relieved I don't have to see her like that.

Our friends who keep me updated keep saying to keep praying. To believe that He is a God of miracles, and that there's still a chance He can heal her. I do believe that- to an extent. But not in Heather's case. I think I knew from the moment she told me she had liver cancer that she would die. Does that make me unfaithful, or a realist? I tend to look at things in a black and white perspective. I tend to believe the worst... to prepare myself for the worst so I can handle it when the inevitable comes. And then if the worst doesn't happen, well.... then I'm gladly proven wrong. But not caught unprepared. And even though I want to believe with all my heart that He's going to swoop in and save her... I cannot bring myself to pray for something that I honestly, truly, don't believe is going to happen. And I think He understands that. At least, I hope He understands.

That being said- I know that she's soon going to be out of pain. That she'll be with her mom again. That she'll be healthy and whole. Heck, maybe her and Emily can even have a few laughs at my expense. In the end, whether He heals her or not... either way Heather wins. I'm not worried about Heather. I'm just sad for her family, sad for her friends, and horribly sad for myself.

I am so tired of saying goodbye to the people I love.

Update on Heather

Heather... oh Heather.

My friend Heather sent an e-mail update yesterday, and it's not good. The chemo is not shrinking the tumor. Her doctors are telling her that she has a rare cancer that will not go into remission. Removing the tumor is not an option, because they cannot remove the cancer cells, and it would continue to grow and spread.

She's looking into a second opinion. They want to do a research study on two drugs that have not yet been tested on humans. The drugs will not cure the cancer, but supposedly will keep the cancer at bay and keep the tumor from growing.

But underneath the research, second opinions, and more tests is the underlying message that she has terminal cancer. That's a hard thing to wrap your mind around. And if it's hard for her friends, I cannot imagine what it's like to actually have your death sentence handed to you like that.

When I spent that day at John's Hopkins with her, it was hard to believe she was so sick. If it hadn't been for the IV pole attached to her, you'd never have known she was ill. She was laughing and chatting and just being... well, Heather. Looking around, I felt so sorry for the people I saw. Especially that girl with the oxygen tank. But not Heather. Not my friend. She was going to be fine.

Turns out she's not. I'd like to believe that God is going to swoop down and perform a miracle. That the tumor is going to disappear along with all traces of cancer cells. And that's possible, I suppose. But the hard reality is that hundreds of people die from cancer. Each one of them has family and friends that are praying for that miracle "swooping" that never comes. I'd like to think that I'm not being cynical... just realistic. Cancer sucks. People die. And if God swooped in on every one of them, then I suppose it wouldn't be a miracle.

Have you seen the new commercial from the American Cancer Society? The one where they show cancer survivors/patients celebrating birthdays and at the end says "the official sponsor of birthdays?" It's a great commercial. And I can't watch it. It about breaks my heart into two. Terri was only 52. Grace was only 6. Elena was only 7. That girl from the cancer ward is only in her 20's. Heather's in her 40's. How many birthdays do they have left?

In my heart of hearts, I'm hoping that God proves me wrong. I want more than anything to be wrong and Heather to be cured. Heather amazes me. Her e-mails are full of a grace and strength and peace that I can't begin to understand. Where my mind fills with "what-ifs" "if onlys" and dark fears, Heather writes of her situation and fears with peace, trust, and faith. I know she's scared. She'll be the first one to tell you that. She accepts her situation and relinquishes control to Him. I want to bargain, plead, and negotiate with God on her behalf. And I'm sure that she's had her moments of pleading too. It's human nature- I think it'd be impossible not to. No matter how strong a person's faith is.

I know He doesn't bargain. I know that sometimes His answer is no. I know that He's always working in ways that we can't possibly understand.

I know that life doesn't always turn out the way we want it to.

But oh... I wish it would.

Finding Him in the cancer ward

There was a girl in the oncology ward today that I cannot get out of my mind. When they first walked in, I only saw them from the back. I saw a man, probably around my parents age, supporting a woman with an oxygen tank. She was very short, very slow, very, very thin, and very frail. Her hair was mussed and I assumed it was this man's mother. Then she sat on the bed and I saw her face.

She's probably in her mid to late 20's.
She's my age.

I have seen sick people before. I spent a day in the hospital with Emily when her blood sugar sky rocketed. I visited my grandmother after her surgery and while she was going through chemo.

But I have never seen someone who looked so close to death.
And so young.

She's my age.

It rattled me. I can't get her out of my mind.

She sat on the edge of the bed for about 10 minutes. Then the nurse helped her bring her legs up and on the bed and get her situated. That little bit of movement exhausted her. It was so painful to watch her struggle to make that move. A movement that I take for granted every day of my life. She closed her eyes and I watched her chest heave up and down as she tried to catch her breath. As an asthmatic I know what it's like to struggle to breathe. I know how terrifying it is to feel like you can't pull enough air into your lungs. I know what it's like to have to conciously tell yourself to take a breath. But that all seemed like nothing compared to her. I have no idea what her name is. I don't know what kind of cancer she has. But she broke my heart.

All day yesterday I was worried about going with Heather. I do not like hospitals. I get a weird buzzing noise in my head the moment I pass through the doors. The sight of an IV makes me feel faint. I wasn't sure if I'd be able to sit through 6 hours of watching poison drip into my friend's veins. But siting in a room full of people whose survival depends on a variety of posions and toxins being pumped into their bodies suddenly makes you grow up and get over yourself. I won't say the buzzing noise went away. And I still felt sick. But I knew that would go away the moment I walked out of the door.

That girl doesn't have the strength to even stand up, let alone walk anywhere.

I've been anxious for weeks about this upcoming flight to Poland. Stressed out and frightened to the point where I sometimes can't think of anything else.
I'm afraid to go on vacation. How ridiculous is that? I bet she'd trade my irrational fear for the very real fear she faces every second.

I looked for God in that room today. I searched for Him in the eyes of that girl. That girl who could easily have been someone I went to school with. I looked for Him in the worried face of her father. I looked for Him standing behind Heather, Heather who now wears a hat and a wig because cancer took her hair. I looked for Him in the pale faces, the dark circles under the eyes, the bald heads, the IV lines, the clicks and beeps of machines, in the shadows in the eyes of the nurses, and the bedside vigil of family and friends.

I know this sounds like such a downer. But then again, cancer is no laughing matter. I wish I could say I found Him, but today He was a little harder to find. I couldn't help but wonder- Why Heather? Why her? Why any of those people in that room? Why does He allow such a horrible disease? Why does He allow such terrible suffering?

I know there aren't really answers to those questions. At least not answers that can satisfy. But yet, find Him I did. I found Him in those very places I was looking for Him. Because love is stronger than death. Cancer can steal your hair, can sap your strength, can tire your spirit and weary your soul. It can exhaust your family and friends, and it can ultimately take a life. But the one thing cancer cannot destroy is love. Love is what covers the bald heads and drips in the IV lines. Love is the light that battles the shadows behind the eyes, and it is the rhythm behind the clicks of machines. It's what sustains the caregivers, the doctors, the nurses. Love is God, therefore everywhere you see love, you see ultimately can't help but see God.

At least that's how I see it.

(in)courage

I highly, highly recommend y'all checking this website out:

This new site was just launched today. Their purpose is simply to provide a place to be a source of encouragemnt to women. And they're asking us to blog about what encourages us.

If I'd read this question yesterday, I probably would have started off with my faith, my family, and my friends. I'd have listed songs that speak to me, and poems that touch the heart. I'd have cited Scripture and quotes from favorite authors. I'd have described beautiful sunsets and the sound of crashing waves.

That was before I spent the day sitting in the oncology ward at Johns Hopkins with a friend while she received a round of chemotherapy.

Suddenly encouragement looks a little different. I looked around me today and saw husbands sitting with their wives, wives with their husbands, daughters with their mothers, a father with his daughter, and friends sitting with friends. I watched nurses treat their patients like people and not an ID number. I saw tears being wiped away as well as shared smiles and laughter. I saw nurses wearing buttons on their scrubs proclaiming that "Cancer Sucks", and I laughed. I looked at the faces of these people, faces of people fighting for their lives, and yet they still smiled. I thought of the anxieties of my own, which pale in comparison, and I felt embarrassed.

Yesterday I would have answered this question with what encourages me. After today I think the question shouldn't be "what encourages you?", but "what can I do to be an encouragement to someone else?"

Battling Anxiety

"Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you." ~ 1Peter 5:7



Lately I've turned into one giant bundle of nerves. Between majorly, and I mean MAJORLY, stressing about the flight to Poland this Thursday, and worrying about life and choices- like finding a job, managing my money, dealing with unemployment, trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up, wondering if it's possible to go to school full time, what school to go to, where I want to live, who I want to be...... between everying I'm just one anatacid pill away from turning into a giant ulcer.



And I've got one more worry added to my ever-growing pile. Heather asked me to go with her tomorrow to her chemotherapy appointment at Johns Hopkins. I said yes right away. Heather is... well, alot like me. She rarely asks for help from people. So when she does ask- it's important. I told her I'd do whatever I had to do to make sure my schedule was clear so I could go. And I meant it- but I'm scared.



I haven't been in a hospital since that day in November 2 years ago when Emily almost died.

I do not like hospitals. Between my asthma and the fact that I am the biggest klutz in the world, you'd think I'd feel right at home. I practically spent half my childhood in the emergency room for one reason or another. But to this day I get this weird buzzing in my head the moment I step foot into one, and from then on it's a constant battle not to pass out. Add needles and IV's and tubes and plugs coming out of people and I'm just about done. That day in November was, up until that point, the worst day of my life. I had to leave poor Emily's room every 15 minutes or so and walk outside.



I want to be there for my friend, but I'm not so sure if I can handle it. It's a pretty selfishly rotten person that causes a drama-queen-esque scene in the middle of her friend's chemo session because IV needles make her feel "oogey".

Oy.

Choosing the right perspective

I sat across from my friend at lunch today.

It's been ages since we had lunch together. I could tell she really wasn't all that hungry, but at least she ate.

And as I looked across at her, I was having trouble comprehending just how sick she is.

CANCER

And to look at her, you'd never even know it. Unless you looked closer and saw the slight shadows under her eyes, and noticed that the color of her skin wasn't really tan, as it appears at first glance, but actually is tinged with yellow--- a subtle sign of the hideous disease that's invaded her liver.

She has the most amazing attitude of anyone I've ever met. She's taken everything in stride, and looks at the whole situation like, "well, there's nothing I can do to change it, so I might as well go through it."

I, however, would not be nearly as strong. It took me three tries to get over to her office the other day to talk to her. Every time I stood up, I started crying. I can't even fathom the thoughts that must be playing through her mind. I know the thoughts that are running through mine, and it's not even happening to me.

And as I sat across from her, I couldn't help but feel very frightened for her. And frightened that I might lose her. That this time in a year she may not be here. Frightened for what she's going to be going through the next few months. Chemo, radiation, surgery... and then isn't it strange how the most insignificant things strike you in the midst of the most significant trials? Heather has beautiful, long, dark hair. I wondered if she'd lose it, and it made my eyes almost tear up. Last thing to be worrying about, eh?

I don't believe in the power of positive thinking- what's going to happen will happen, and no amount of happy thoughts is going to change that one little bit. Either she'll make it or she won't. Period.

So where does the whole faith thing come into play?

Big time struggle at the moment.

In my heart, I know the whole faith "thing" is what carries you through the trial. It's an inner reaction to outer circumstances beyond your control. Regardless of the outcome, I know faith is what holds you together, holds your family and friends together, it's what your entire life is based on. I know that's where her inner strength is coming from. Regardless of whether she is healed or not, I know her faith won't be shaken.
And I also know that faith only in the good times is not true faith. "Good times only" faith is standing in front of the entrance to a tunnel, and having a giant hissy fit, refusing to go in unless you can see the light at the end. Real faith is stepping forward into the dark and knowing the light is there without being able to see it.
But I guess the kicker is that life doesn't give you an option. You HAVE to go through the tunnel regardless of whether you can or can't see the light.

I know this, and I believe this. But my there are too many thoughts running through my head, and I'm having trouble hearing my heart.

My head is screaming that it's not fair, that someone should do something, that Heather should be more worried, more upset, and not so calm and serene because it's CANCER for goodness sake and it's BAD. I don't want her to be sick, I don't want her to die, I don't want... don't want... don't want.......

But once the voice in my head gets hoarse from all the yelling.... I can hear that still small voice again. Not the voice of positive thinking, but the voice of faith. There is a chance that she'll be okay. And there's a good chance that she won't. And no, my thinking isn't going to influence the outcome one way or another. Kind of like that tunnel. She's got to go through it- either fearful and frightened because she can't see the light at the end, or at peace because she knows it really is there. It's the perspective that changes the journey.

I need to hang onto that. 'Cause I, and everyone else who loves her, is heading though that tunnel with her. Might as well choose the right perspective.

Damn cancer.

Unspoken shadow

Cancer.

It's amazing the myriad of emotions one little word creates. Fear. Anguish. Horror. Sorrow. Devastation. Anger.

It even sounds ugly.

I think everyone has been touched by cancer, in some way. Family, friends, co-workers, themselves.

One of my good friends found at last week that she had a softball-sized mass on her liver. Cancer whispered in the background as she was telling me.

But you don't speak it. Not yet.

They found the mass on Thursday. By Friday morning, she had a biopsy scheduled.

When doctors hurry, you know it's not good. Cancer hovers like a shadow.

But you still don't speak it.

Blood work and biopsies and waiting.

Upbeat telephone conversation on Saturday. You focus on the positive, you talk about your faith, you try to look on the bright side. Meanwhile, cancer is laughing in the background.

But you can't say it. Saying the word makes it true.

Waiting. No news on Monday. Maybe it's not that bad. Maybe we dodged a bullet. Maybe it's just a mass. Maybe cancer lost this one.

Tuesday... still waiting. Preliminary blood work came back that the pancreas and kidneys are clear. No biopsy results, but maybe it's a good sign. No news is good news, right?

Wednesday morning. Suddenly the word is spoken. And cancer becomes a horrifying reality.

I'm reeling, to say the least. My friend is only in her early 40's. This can't be real. And if I'm reeling, I can't imagine what she's going through. Cancer has been the unspoken word haunting me since she told me about the tumor.... but I'm just the friend. I'm not the one who's got it raging through her insides. A Malignant tumor that's on her liver and spread to her gallbladder.

I didn't know what else to do, so I went to Google. I don't know alot about liver cancer, but I figured I'd better look into the worst case scenario. I'm the type of person that wants to know the worst. I can handle pretty much anything, as long as I know what to expect. Hence the disaster that my life and sanity has been this past year with Emily. Grief is anything but predictable. I turned to Google, hoping to find a measure of hope. Hoping that it's one of those types that is easily curable.

I wish I hadn't. I wish I didn't know.

Liver cancer is fast-growing, and often not detected because it's relatively symptom-less. Until the tumor gets so large that it begins to cause gastrological discomfort. And by then... well let's just say that the prognosis isn't good.

I sat staring at my computer screen trying to process the words I was seeing.

life expectancy often less than a year after diagnosis.

I couldn't put that sentence and my friend's face together. I just can't.

We talked on Saturday. My friend is one of those people that is always upbeat. She's the perfect Pollyanna. Truthfully, sometimes so much that a little of her goes a long way. But she has a heart of gold, and she put up with alot of my crap over the last year. And even though she can sometimes be... a little much at times... she's one of the truest friends I have. So all through the conversation, I'm trying not to let the worry creep into my voice, and she's the same laughing, carefree.. well, Pollyanna... that she always is. I told her that we didn't have a thing to worry about. I'd already had a loooong conversation with God that I had a whole list of people He couldn't do anything to for the next 10 years, because I simply couldn't deal with it. I laughingly told her that it was in fact all about me, and that she was going to be fine... that she had to be because I simply couldn't handle it.

We both laughed.... even though cancer hung in the air, unspoken, between us.

She'd be the first person to tell me that Google was the last place I should be turning to for a measure of hope. I know where my hope lies, and I know Who it lies with. And unfortunately, He doesn't always give the answers so that I can hear them. My knees hit the floor Thursday and I haven't gotten up yet. But it doesn't always end the way we want it to. The Relay for Life over this past weekend is evidence enough of that.

cancer

It. Is. Not. Fair.