The Final Lap

Just over 16 months ago, our lives were rocked with the terrifying diagnosis of my breast cancer.  The next year would include exhausting chemotherapy treatments, a grueling double-mastectomy, and several rounds of radiation.  As I laid out in detail through that time, it was a year filled with heartache and pain, pushing our whole family to the edge of our own strength over and over again.  And yet, through the suffering came glimpses of beauty that we had never before experienced, and we've been molded and refined by the Lord in ways we never even expected.
 
At times, I wondered if the journey would ever come to an end.  So much of the time spent fighting cancer is a blur in my memory.  From the various treatments to all of the pain medicine, we continue to joke about my "chemo brain!"  It almost feels like that year of my life sped along at full speed while I slept.  When it all started, I had a 9, 7, 5, and 2 year old.  And somehow, in the blink of an eye, those little people have grown into 10, 8, 6, and almost 4 year olds.  That may not seem like a lot, but it feels a bit like an eternity as I stare into their not so tiny faces and examine their not so little hands.  I feel in some ways like that time was taken from me, and yet by God's grace, it has given me such an urgency to savor our moments.  Sometimes I look at them and feel so overwhelmed and humbled that God chose me to be their mom...what a crazy, amazing, absolutely beautiful gift.

Since finishing up my Herceptin treatments in March, it's been BUSY at the Skoog home!  Getting back into full "mom-mode" has been trying and at times, just plain exhausting.  I still feel a bit slow in doing things, and I just don't seem to have the energy to push through like I used to.  And yet, God has been so good in giving our family grace with one another as we've worked our way back into a normal routine.  The kids and I finished up our 4th year of homeschooling a few weeks ago, and between baseball games, volleyball camps, and VBS, our schedule has been pretty full for the past couple of months!  Thanks to my parents and my sweet husband, I was able to sneak away this past weekend with some dear friends to The Gospel Coalition conference...what an AMAZING encouragement and a much needed break in the action around here :) 

We were hoping to finish up my final reconstruction surgery back in February or March.  On my agenda was a quick recovery and a summer FULL of all of the things that I missed out on last year!  The pool, Kings Island, day and weekend trips, and training for my first race back were just a few of the many things on my list.  But alas, God had other plans to refine me just a little bit more :)  I developed an infection back in January/February that my plastic surgeon couldn't seem to get under control.  After several rounds of antibiotics, she determined that the best plan of action was to schedule an "extra" surgery in order to repair the quickly deteriorating skin.  This procedure was completed on March 29th, pushing my final surgery back a few months and into my anticipated summer of fun.  I must say...as impatient of a girl as I've always been, cancer has taught me that my timetable really doesn't matter at all in the equation.  Whatever control I thought I had before was really just an illusion :)

But FINALLY...the day has come!  Tomorrow morning is what will hopefully be my final surgery.  The final stop of the journey.  I've waited so long to be able to say that cancer is really behind me.  There was always another step, another hurdle, another hoop to jump through.  And although I know that I will somewhat continue to have the shadow of cancer following me to my appointments every 3 months for a while, my treatments and procedures will be complete.  Oh, how good that will feel!!!

And so I ask you again, will you pray for me?  Would you pray that this surgery goes smoothly, that there would be no complications, and that I would recover quickly?  The week after surgery tends to be a bit discouraging with all of the pain medicine and limited mobility.  Please pray for patience for our children as they continue to be troopers through all of this.  Pray for Bryan as he faithfully works hard for our family and helps me with recovery, all without complaint.  And finally, pray that God will continue to be glorified through us as we seek to honor Him and as we are hopefully able to close this chapter in our lives for good!

Herceptin's Bittersweet Goodbye

March 9, 2015 marked a day that will be etched in my mind forever.  The week before had been a whirlwind of preparations for this day...MRI's, a surgery to place a port in my chest, a bone scan, a chest/abdomen CT scan, consults with doctors, and a trip with my girls to purchase a wig for the day my hair began to fall out.  Notebook and pen in hand, I had met with my oncology nurse friend in order to prepare for the side effects that would begin on this day.  My longtime childhood friends came to visit and encourage me.  Bryan and I sat in our sweet friends' living room while our troops prepared us for battle by praying over us...countless friends and family who lovingly brought us before the throne of God, pleading for grace to be given for the journey.  Food was shared, tears were poured out, cards were penned with beautiful words to encourage and prepare us.  Selfless women in my life surprised me by cleaning EVERY square inch of our home in order to keep germs at bay for my soon-to-be fragile immune system.  I packed a trendy little bag given to me by friends and filled it with magazines, mints, Jolly Ranchers (both of which were supposed to help with the terrible tastes I would experience), and a new blanket made especially for this day by my dear neighbor.  Bryan and I, in our limited foreknowledge of the road before us, prayed for the strength to go to war.

The morning of March 9th, I picked out clothes that would allow the nurses easy access to the port in my chest.  Quickly, I learned that camisoles with zip-up sweatshirts and yoga pants would become the standard attire for these events :)  I was nervous, understanding that the "healthiness" that my body seemed to be experiencing would give way to a sickness I had never known.  Would the chemo hurt as it entered my body?  How long would it take to begin to feel the ravages of these necessary, yet harsh medications?  I appled lydocaine cream to my port, covering the site with a small piece of Press-and-Seal wrap, hoping to ease the discomfort of the needle they would use while accessing it.  Looking back, I really could not have adequately prepared for what was coming, no matter how hard I tried.  Experience would be the only truly effective teacher.

After seeing Dr. Jones, my oncologist, Bryan, my mom, and I went next door to the Good Sam infusion center.  Vanessa, Renee, and Tina, who would be the valiant nurses that would administer my chemo through the next year of my life, greeted me and led me to a grey reclining chair in the back corner of the room.  Several other patients were scattered throughout the small, yet bright and airy room, most of them sitting next to loved ones who came to walk through the dreadfulness with them.  Following a brief explanation of what my 6-7 hour regimen would entail (5-6 hours from here on out), they brought me warm blankets and made me comfortable.  Although I didn't realize it at the time, these nurses were teaching me the dance that is chemo, one in which I would soon learn the steps of so well.  And as terrible as it would quickly become, there was a certain predictability to its rhythm that I would grow to appreciate.

After the premeds were administered, along with my first chemo drug, the nurses began running my second chemo drug, Herceptin.  This rockstar part of my regimen would be a crucial weapon in my fight against the HER2 positive status of my cancer.  My mom had left to pick up our kids, and Bryan and I were resting comfortably, playing cards.  Very quickly, however, something seemed off to me.  I was experiencing terrible cramping and nausea, which I assumed was attributed to the chemo (although I had heard that didn't typically begin until a couple of days later).  My body was also shaking, as if experiencing severe chills.  The nurses were aware and were keeping an eye on me, yet I was feeling discouraged.  Was my body weak and unable to handle the chemo?  Was this normal?  Did I need to get tougher?  All of a sudden, something seemed to flow from my abdomen up through my chest, into my esophagus, and up to my throat.  I coudn't breathe.  As in, I really couldn't get a breath.  It felt like I was choking.  Vanessa, Renee, and Tina immediately came to my side, and I just remember grabbing Vanessa's arm asking her to please help me.  They turned off the Herceptin (which was almost finished), gave me two steriod injections, and called for Dr. Jones.  I was terrified.

Quickly, they had the situation under control, and I felt so much better.  The cramping, nausea, and chills were gone, and I could breathe again.  However, Dr. Jones and the nurses made the unilateral decision to stop treatment for the day.  Apparently, I had experienced a severe allergic reaction to the Herceptin.  I cried and pleaded with them to finish the remaining drugs because I knew that my body needed them.  It was the first of many times that my doctor made a decision that showed the depth of his knoweldge and the strength of his conviction to fight this cancer for me.

Returning the next day, with my body well-rested and by God's grace, we were able to finish the remaining drugs in my regimen.  And three weeks later, Dr. Jones figured out a way to still administer Herceptin, which ended up ultimately being the heavy lifter that took out my cancer.  I would visit the infusion center well over 20 times over the next year, receiving 6 full chemo treatments (4 drugs each time), 12 Herceptin only infusions, and several other infusions of fluid, Potassium, and Magnesium.  3 weeks is the most time that has passed between an infusion, and as difficult as that has been to fit into our busy lives, it's become a dance I can now do in my sleep.  Dr. Jones, the nurses, the other patients who have sat beside me through this war, have all played a role in literally saving my life.

So saying that today, my very LAST Herceptin infusion, was bittersweet feels like an understatement.  Obviously, it is a GOOD day when you realize that there will be no more port accesses, no more sleepiness from the infusions (Herceptin was relatively side-effects-free), no more child-care to arrange and two hour blocks to schedule in every 3 weeks, no more in-your-face reminders that you are/were a cancer patient.  It marks the end of the course of treatment that Dr. Jones set out to complete for me back in March 2015, and it worked!!

Yet, it's the dance of life I've also come to know, and there is some strange comfort in that.  Knowing that they were still treating the beast that had taken up residence in my body provided some security, and my doctor acknowledged that the safety net is now being removed.  I will continue to see Dr. Jones every 6 months for the next 5+ years (along with my surgeon, probably staggered every 6 months with him), yet the indicator of a cancer recurrence will now somewhat rest on me.  There will be no scans to complete because I had a double mastectomy.  And since there is no early detection for metastatic breast cancer, it's not effective to do any other scans until symptoms present themselves.  Hopefully that will never EVER become a reality for me, but I now have to monitor and report any symptom that lasts longer than a couple of weeks.  And without Herceptin to guard me, that feels like a sobering thought.

Those thoughts woke me around 3:00 a.m. last night, and desperately tried to suck the joy right out of my heart.  Here were some of my responses this morning in my prayer journal...

I know that there is now a heaviness in our lives that will likely remain, one that hopefully will not steal our joy or hover over us causing fear.  Yet this part of us all will be marked.  This makes me sad, particularly for my precious husband and children, yet you KNOW it is ultimately for their good and your glory that they walk forward with this burden.  Their wife and mom have had cancer.  Cancer is a known enemy...a destroyer.  Yet we do NOT know that it will ever return again!  For now, you have given us victory, and I pray we will rejoice and cultivate happy hearts in that.  Being that my last treatment is today, it feels like I'm walking in to the abyss of the unknown from here.  My doctors will have me "on surveillance," so they say.  They will monitor my body and seek to keep this beast away.  But my body will now be on its own to fight.  Please make it strong, oh God.

But more than anything, please quiet my heart before you.  You created the universe.  You've put kings and rulers into power and removed them.  You told the oceans where to stop and placed each star in its proper location.  And you created me.  Each organ of my body and every cell that resides in me is also under the mighty authority of YOU.  You knew cancer was there before I did.  You wrote all my days in your book and you know when I will breathe my last.  You know that about all of us.  Father, may I find rest in knowing that I don't have the power to control my cells, but you do.  And I can trust you will work all things together for our good and your glory.

So, that's where we must go from here!  Walking each step, living each day with joy, knowing that He is in control.  Taking our thoughts captive (sometimes moment by moment), and cultivating happy hearts in the victory that God has provided.  And ultimately, praising Him that the true victory has already been accomplished through Christ's death and resurrection and the eternity of everlasting joy that awaits those who put their trust in Him.

As Renee and Vanessa were getting ready to start my Herceptin today, they began the drill that they complete each and every time they administer a drug.  They scan my bracelet and ask me to give them my name and date of birth.  Every time.  Even for Tylenol :)  We always laugh, especially when I'm in the middle of a chemo-induced nap and have to wake up to walk through the drill.  Today, as Renee got ready to ask me my name, it hit me.  This would be the last time I would give these answers.  I would walk out of that room after the infusion, and hopefully never be back.  The emotion of it all overwhelmed me, and I couldn't get the words out.  I always say that certain things that I would assume would be so difficult end up easier, and it's the little things that seem to knock me off my feet.  Today was one such moment.  I couldn't get my name and date of birth out because I was choking on tears.  I looked around at that room...the room where I dove into the throes of cancer and have come out on the other side.  The room where multiple people accompanied me to my treatments, resulting in some of the sweetest conversations I've ever had.  The room where I watched others suffer and, hopefully, learned a whole new level of compassion.  We all had a good few minutes to take in all of the heartache, and yet all of the beauty, and just cry.

 

  
  

The Year Mark...

Oh, if I could only put into words the emotions that overwelm me as I begin this post.  One year.  One year ago today, the dreaded call came in from my surgeon.  The confirmation we knew was coming when the phone rang.  The day it snowed, and I drank coffee and read my Bible while the kids laughed and played outside.  As foggy as 2015 was for me, I remember every detail of this day last year.  In fact, this entire week has ushered in a flood of memories marking my "anniversary" with this unwelcomed guest in my life.

On Wednesday, as I was writing down the kids assignments for the day, I remembered how I had done the very same thing on this day the previous year.  I quickly rummaged through the stack of binders and notebooks in the basement from last year, and flipped to February 17th, 2015.  We were wrapping up early that day because I had an appointment to get to, so the school list was relatively short.  An annoying interuption to a busy week.  As I glanced to the right hand side of the notebook, I realized that there were no assignments for February 18th, 19th, or 20th.  Blank page after blank page stared at me--a haunting reminder of the new tasks our family would be given through those coming days.  February 17th...a day that would change our world forever.

I went through the chronology of those early days in my first entry (My Cancer Story), so I won't go through all of the details again.  But there are snapshots that remain so fresh in my mind that they feel like they occurred yesterday.  My Dad making Bryan take the afternoon off from work so that he could take me to my appointment (which I thought was silly, since it was just going to be a routine thing :).  The sweet young woman who performed my mammogram sharing stories about her little girl as she tried to make me feel comfortable.  Ingrid, the ultrasound tech with the Russian accent, telling me that she'd be right back, leaving me alone to stare inquisitively at the pictures for the next 20 minutes.  The young radiologist with her wispy curls and tender smile trying her best to offer Bryan and I words of comfort as she explained details on her computer screen...the beast she knew would inevitably change the direction of our lives from that moment forward.

Bryan and I wept in the parking lot and all the way home.  My mom had our kids; so we returned to my parents' house, where he picked them up so that I could talk to my mom.  How?  How do you tell your mom that the doctor thinks you have cancer?  Like me, she assumed this would all be routine, so it broke my heart to burst her bubble.  More tears freely flowed between us, but there was a new strength that I witnessed that day in my mom...a steady confidence in her Savior that has encouraged me countless times throughout this journey.  My mom trusted Jesus to provide grace for the days ahead, and she gently laid her plans for her child in the hands of a completely trustworthy God.

Bryan and I took the kids to Chick-Fil-A that night.  I yearned to do something normal with them.  So we ate chicken nuggets, and waffle fries, and I wiped away tears the entire time.  I kept looking around at all of the busy people around us, wondering if life would ever truly feel normal again.  I examined my children's faces in a new way that night, as I contemplated how life would change for them.  I loved them so much and didn't want to see them hurt.  Bryan and I kept looking at each other, both of us trying not to break down in the middle of one of our favorite restaurants.   

The next day, February 18th, was brutally cold with snow and ice galore.  My kids felt that a snow day was in order, and I couldn't refuse.  Once the surgeon viewed my scans, she wanted to see me immediately, so our family began the drill we would run through countless times over the next several months...assign/recruit a driver for me, scramble quickly to find childcare for our four young ones, kiss those four little people goodbye for a bit, and clear our minds on the way so that we were ready to process "doctor speak."  

My surgeon performed a surgical biopsy in the office, which as I learned later from other surgeons, is typically done in a more surgical setting under some kind of anesthesia.  Anxious to get the procedure done, and with a military background, she utlized her resources the best she could (including having her office administrator assist with the biopsy).  We laugh now, but she had to ask poor Bryan to sit down because he nearly passed out at the sight of everything!  Let's just say, I probably would have asked for a little sedation had I known the details of that procedure :)  Looking back, I'm grateful.  She knew it was bad, and she didn't want to wait another day for me to return.

Then we waited.  Oh, how we learned to wait through this past year!  Wednesday until Saturday, we tried to resume "normal" life as we awaited the news.  The radiologist and surgeon had both made it clear it was LIKELY cancer, but I supposed there was a part of us that held out hope that everyone was wrong.  We cried and prayed a lot together during that week.  Shane and Shane, a Christian singing duo that I had liked a lot before, became my new best friends through the long, sleepless nights.  The God who created the universe, and yet knit each tiny cell in my body together, met me in each moment of my grief, giving me comfort like I had never experienced before.  I clung to Romans 8:28, among countless other verses...

  

     "And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose."

If I had cancer, it would not be "good."  However, I knew I could trust my God to work all things FOR my good and His glory.  Joy in pain, beauty in ashes, light out of darkness...those things became our way of life through the next year.  And even through these painful memories, we know that not a step of it was on our own apart from a loving God.

The call on that Saturday, February 21st was actually a bit unclimactic for us, but a necessary step to get the ball rolling.  My surgeon called from her daughter's volleyball tournament, so I could hardly hear her.  Yes, cancer.  Lymph nodes affected.  Stage 2 (would later be changed to Stage 3).  Waiting on type...will know more next week and will meet then.  I can't remember if we cried?  We were ready to go.  We called our families (who were also prepared for the news).  We called our friends to get the prayer chain started.  We made grilled cheese sandwiches for the kids and brought them in from the snow to have a "special family lunch," where we revealed the news to them in gentle language they could understand.  Our family prepared for battle together.

A year later, it seems like a lifetime ago, and yet like yesterday at the very same time.  Our world has been turned upside down, and at times, has seemed to have shaken the life right out of us.  We have experienced more joy and pain simulatenously than we ever thought possible, but the God who has held us through it all has remained constant.  One of the verses that the kids and I memorized before I had cancer was Psalm 62:5-7...

"For God alone, Oh my soul, wait in silence,

for my hope is from Him.

He only is my rock and my salvation,

my fortress; I shall not be shaken.

On God rests my salvation and my glory; 

my mighty rock, my refuge is God.

What comfort it has been to have Him be our rock and our fortress.  We knew this verse before, but we feel like we KNOW it now.

There have been different phases of this journey for us...days during chemo where all I could do was record my thoughts from my bed and rest, others like the past couple of months where "normal life" has kept us so busy that I've had very little time to process anything.  I'm so grateful to be back on a pretty normal routine again, living the life of a busy mom!  The past couple of weeks have caused me to be much more contemplative again as I look back on how much has changed in a year.  

As I prepare for ONE more Herceptin treatment (yes, only ONE MORE!!!) on March 1st, there is much emotion going on inside of me (which tends to mean, I need to write :).  There is an abundance of joy one minute, followed by a wave of fear for the future the next.  I'm learning much about taking my thoughts captive to Christ right away so that those fears don't overwhelm me.

Thank you so much for your continued prayers for my family through all of our days with this!  Our family, friends, and sweet individuals we don't even know have been instruments in the hand of God to encourage us and to show us the grace of our Savior.  You have most certainly been used by Him for His glory in our lives!  It has been a long and difficult road; and although my treatments are wrapping up, we would still covet your prayers for my body to remain healthy, and for our hearts to remain steadfast.