We are just stating the obvious when we say that cancer sucks. But what else is there to say? Cancer is a waste of time. Cancer is destructive. Cancer ruins plans, shakes up families, breaks hearts, and leaves a lot of tears and fears in its wake. Cancer SUCKS.
But cancer when your faith is built on a rock and not sand is manageable I guess. Especially when they tell you it's not terminal, that the surgery got all of the cells. My mom's going to have a low-dose of radiation, with virtually no side effects according to the doctor. Radiation is still a scary word - and in the past month my worst nightmare and the unthinkable happened: cancer. my mom. used in the same sentence.
But after a few deep breaths, I always come back to two things. One is, obviously, faith. In a higher power. In an
Almighty God. The peace that passes understanding. The joy and promise that this life is quick, life a flower wilting in the spring, and eternal life is...eternal. The confidence in believing, trusting, that God sent His only Son, who died willingly on a cross, and that that God loves us more than we can fathom.
The second thing that has kept me from losing my mind through all of this - if even for thirty minutes - is Jay
Chenoweth. The entire
Chenoweth family. My mom has never, not once that I know of, been told that this cancer is threatening her life. Horrible, scary, a nuisance, yes. But terminal? Unbeatable? No. And that was not the case for Jay. Cancer over took his body and he's not on earth anymore. We can't call him, can't see him, hear his laugh. We have our memories, his spirit, his love, to keep us going. I know he's watching over us, but still... I don't know how his family does it sometimes. I don't understand why God allows death to knock on some doors much earlier than others. I have a lot of questions. We all do. Mostly though, I just miss him. Soooo much.
God is God and we are not, as the song goes I guess. But I know I shouldn't complain about my mom being sick, about surgery and scary words and
hospital stays, because eventually my mom will recover completely. My mom's trip to Heaven is delayed for now. And when you see families who cannot say the same for their loved ones, well, it puts it all in perspective.
I drove by my parents house on a recent Thursday, the first Thursday my mom was out of the hospital from Monday surgery. I was coming from a 6 pm training session at school and racing to a weekly dinner with friends. I parked my car on the street, glanced at the setting sun as I made my way up the sidewalk. The dogs barked their greeting at me from the backyard gate. I pressed the door handle lightly, thinking that my mom might be sleeping in her bed. I called quietly for my dad and brother, but they were not home, though the alarm was not on, the door unlocked. The dogs -we call them "the boys"- raced along the wall of windows in the back, wanting me to let them in. It was then that I saw my mom sitting in one of our giant leather chairs, a quilt pulled up around her shoulders, feet propped on an ottoman she designed years ago-and recovered twice.
"Hi, Mom," I whispered. I couldn't stay long; quite selfishly I figured she was sleeping all the time these days and could wake to see me for a few minutes. I patted her shoulder. "Mom," I whispered. "Mom." I said in a loud voice. No movement. Dogs barking loudly in the background. Strange. I sucked in my breath and searched for signs of life. Her chest moved up and down with the slow rhythm of a deep slumber. I released my breath loudly with relief. "Hi, Mom." I whispered. Tears started to fall down my cheeks. I realized how illogical and childish it was of me to jump to the conclusion- "She's not breathing! She's dead!" I knew she hadn't been sleeping well in the hospital. I knew she was still coming off anthesia. Naturally she was exhausted. It dawned on me how I had been hiding my fears of losing my mom. But here she was, alive and well after surgery, with optimistic news from her doctors. She was going to be fine. This was not terminal. This would not be my mom's last nap in our living room. I was overcome with gratitude and stood there for several moments patting my mom's shoulder and whispering to her. (Often called the crack-baby for my untouchiness, I never would have done this had she been awake.)
Why did we deserve to have our mom home, resting peacefully after doctors removed her cancer? Why couldn't other friends, families, be as fortunate? Why don't we have a cure for this awful disease?
I was thankful my mom's cancer had set up shop in organs that are unnecessary. I could have stood there, rubbing my mom's arm, watching her sleep and counting the Robinson's blessings for hours. But I didn't, there was no need to be dramatic. On with life. I wiped my tears, whispered a prayer of thanks. I stood in the backyard and gave each of the furry boys a hug as they wagged their tails enthusiastically. Back inside, I smiled through a few more tears as I leaned on my mom. "I'll see you tomorrow," I whispered.
Tomorrow! What a sweet word.
traveling. renza sharpe. two of my favorite things in the whole world. 
I'm sure everyone has a bucket list - things they want to do before they die. Mine isn't really put together all in one place - every journal I've ever kept has a few things in it I've jotted down as must-dos. I've had conversations with good friends or my parents about places to see and things to do before we die. Dreaming is a fun 
