Lucky me.

I am alive. My hands, feet, eyes and ears all work. to prove it, I was able to take a walk this morning and it was a sensory feast. Squirrels playing, moist cool air and earthy smells from the earlier rain, cozy looking houses, red winter berries, magnificent evergreens.

Most of all, my lungs are clear. I am breathing - deep, full breaths in this crispy morning air. Seems like ages since I had and needed an oxygen tube. I am feeling great.

Here's the luckiest part. Based on new research (source below) that was just released, the survival rates of stage IV, ALK-positive lung cancer patients has improved dramatically to a new median survival of 6.8 years. Wowsers!

This is beginning to feel more like a chronic health condition to be managed rather than a death sentence. When the lung cancer culprit is a genetic mutation, then protein inhibitors are taken daily as pills (referred to as targeted therapy). I take Alectinib, 600 mg. daily with minimal side effects.

Before all this happened I was blithely unaware that lung cancer is the leading cancer killer in the U.S. for both men and women. I have such gratitude for the multitude of researchers who continuously work to unlock the causes and cures for all cancers, especially lung cancer. I am also appreciative of the ongoing funding that made this particular research possible.

Count me in as lucky. Blessed. Encouraged. Grateful.

Source - Pacheco, JM et al, "Natural history and factors associated with overall survival in stage IV ALK rearranged non-small cell lung cancer" J Thora Oncol 2019.

Growing pains

Growing pains are painful. Just as I had not planned on getting cancer or stepping back from the work that I loved, I really had not planned on feeling turned inside out or being forced to rethink my values, identity and time. While I am grateful for the bonus time I have been given to reflect, time to reflect has inevitably resulted in my concluding that the best me - not the person that I am most comfortable being or think I should be - undoubtedly looks very different from the me that I know so well. I want to grow and change but this will require surrendering in every which direction. It feels liberating at times and almost always terribly difficult. It requires a lot of prayer and contemplative practice. It is a painful and scary and I am not very good at surrendering at all. It requires a gradual chipping away of some of the traits I am personally very fond of and would prefer to keep if I could! However, only by surrendering can I find true clarity and peace.

Examples of these growing pains are His wanting to move me from being Type A/driven to being surrendered and led; from demanding efficiency to being willing to sit in peace with the ambiguity of my circumstances; from making impulsive decisions to a more prayer-filled, God-directed choices; from drawing my focus away from completing tasks and more toward people; from heavy-hearted duty to light-hearted joy in service; from self-doubt to total sufficiency as His child. As His child, I am enough. I have enough.

My prayer is that if there is any redemption in this suffering, which I believe there is, may I be continuously shaped and molded by the One who created me into the vessel that I was intended to become. He promises the growing pains will be worth it and I trust Him.

Just Breathe....

There is a new pattern to my life now. Scans are taken four times a year to see if there are any signs of metastasis or new cancer. Every three months, like clockwork, I sign myself into the Radiology department at the Cancer center for an updated CT scan of the chest and MRI scan of the brain. I try to distract my attention from the clicks, loud buzzes and hammering of the claustrophobic MRI machine by singing tunes in my head to go along with the percussive racket. By comparison, the CT procedure that follows afterward is a piece of cake. The CT machine feels roomier, the atmosphere is more relaxed and I get to keep my street clothes on. No one seems concerned about metal clips or hardware buried in my body somewhere that might go flying across the room.

I also appreciate that the CT machine gives simple, clear commands that are important. Periodically, a deep voice will say, "Take a deep breath," and then a few seconds later, "BREATHE" in a expansive tone so that you know to exhale and do just that. Unlike the other days in my life, I cannot avoid facing the reality of having advanced lung cancer on my "scan" days. I feel small and vulnerable when getting scanned by these sophisticated machines. On those days, sometimes I forget to breathe.

Last week it was time to have my scans done. My husband and I met with my oncologist afterward who beamed as she showed me the pictures which showed beautiful clear lungs and a healthy brain. What wonderful news! Over the past three months, my meds have been effective in keeping the cancer at bay and in fact they have been effective now for the past six months. All three of us in the room were grinning at each other. My husband and I practically floated out of the room and my oncologist, who is normally very reserved, was smiling like a cat that ate a canary.

Barbara Brown Taylor, in An Altar In the World, talks about how our bodies remain God's best way of getting to us and that deep suffering makes theologians of us all. Suffering often causes us to ponder important spiritual questions. When there is a lack of suffering, its easy to delude ourselves into thinking that we have some control over our own destiny and there is a comfortable denial.

Four times a year - same routine, same machines, serve as a regular reminder that I have met the enemy and it lurks within me, is part of me, and will some day reappear. I remind myself that its ok, that its going to be ok, to just..breathe...